Thanqol

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Archer smirks when the blow comes. He leans into it. The raw iron valkyrie blade cuts into his master with a shuddering impact like chopping wood.

Not like - the fox glamour falls away, revealing that Archer had been hauling a wooden log on his back, disguised with an enchanted leaf. In the moment when Saber's blade catches in the wood he strikes like a serpent, cutting sword answering the false blow with a true one. If Saber had committed to the attack she would be dead.

"Vengeance is mine, sayth the Lord," said Archer as they part. There was an angelic devilry to his teasing smile. "So, no. After all, what will happen when you drink your fill of vengeance? Will you return to the North, hitch your plough and tend your family? I don't think so. If there's one thing the Southerners never understood about us it's that no matter how much they gave us it would never be enough."

He steps about, holding his blade indifferently. This is no master swordsman and no match for the Saber class - his proof is in his arsenal and in his cunning. To stand his ground like this means that he believes he can bring it to bear in full.

"This ends tonight, ancestor," said Archer. "So come, and become another detail in my glorious history."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Now," said Cyanis. "We go now."

Cyanis had always been a creature of instinct, and above every other instinct: hunger. Once the tunnel was complete and she was amongst the hens then came time for savagery. Every careful lie, every patient breath, every moment pretending to be a good girl came apart the moment that she caught the scent of blood. Beneath the coat of angel fur, fangs.

Archer was the same.

He folded his angel's wings and dived towards the earth.

*

The talents that make a good killer are not the talents that make for a good soldier.

An affinity for lurking in the shadows becomes cowardice before the battle howl. A short blade does not have the reach of a greatsword. Padded civilian clothes are no proof against weapons of war. The highwaymen die like dogs, and with each one the great abacus of coin, favours and mana clicks lower and lower.

"I only need one," murmured Assassin, signing the next letter and all the price it represented. "A king must be lucky every time."

Another wave - the shudder of crossbow bolts. Again Opalis is the target. She writhes free of Saber amid the battle and scrambles for cover. Interposing between her and the assassins is Diaofei, bleeding freely, whirling and striking quarrels out of the air. She is no mean warrior, but even devoted entirely to defense she cannot keep pace with the onslaught. Where she falls short she takes the bolts to her own body. A second bolt joins the first. Then a third. That is all she can take, and she falls.

*

"What are you doing!?" said Actia.
"Finishing what you started," said Assassin mildly, looking up from his desk.
"I left nothing unfinished," snarled the fox.
Assassin had enough experience with kings not to question that tone. He held up his hands.
"Everything has played out exactly according to my calculations," said Actia. "I have it under control, and I do not need you going behind my back -"
"I only desire to serve you, Master," said Assassin, standing up and bowing. "I will, of course, call off my men."

*

The killer stands above Diaofei. The knife is in his hand.

He raises it without hesitation and goes for the kill.

*

"That was uncalled for," said Assassin, sounding politely hurt.
"Was it?" snapped Actia. Two command seals burn on her wrist.
"A waste of resources," said Assassin. "I offered my obedience freely, there was no need to compel it. Regardless, my ability to influence events has come to a close - Archer will conclude things from here."

*

Diaofei pulls herself to her elbows. Three bolts. But the killing blow had not come. Saber must have reached her in time...

A valkyrie stands above a scene of slaughter. An angel of the raven god, sent to judge the worthy dead. She finds none here. They died without valour or skill and there is no place for cowards in Valhalla.

And then, a vision descends from the heavens. An angel of the lamb god, sent to judge the worthy dead. He finds plenty here. They died in service to the Lord, and there is no sin that a Crusade cannot wash away.

"Ho, honoured ancestor!" calls Archer, haloed in light. "It does my heart good to see our people were as fierce in your day as they were in mine!"

Breathless Dead

Bella!

"The crossing?" said the Uncrowned King, holding up a glittering violet crystal necklace. "We have that managed. Lord Hades, in his wisdom, has been striving mightily to break the bounds of the underworld and these are the result: Dreamstones. Already we have witnessed aliens wielding these sacred relics as crude weaponry. When we turned our eyes to the heavens we did not expect to find such barbarism."

Their skin. It was moving. You see through the glare of the sun, the flicking at the edges of their silhouettes - they are each of them a hive. Swarms of flealike insects clinging to an armoured skeleton, leaping from one body to another in constant, controlled exchange. The heat does not bother them.

"But it is unjust to hold the secret of your homeworld from us," said the Uncrowned King. His voice was kind, but he did not know how to help your fragile body with the heat. "We who were not given the chance to learn the will of Hermes. The Gods do not belong to you alone."

Ember!

"Degenerate!" gasped the Star King in dismay. "Oh, we offend you! The Silver Diver, with her pockets stuffed full of pennies, says that we do not have trophies to display! Oh, woe is us and our lineage in the face of such judgement!"

The Star Kings ripple with laughter. It is not condescending, they are not taking you lightly. This exchange of speeches is the very essence of interpack conflict. This is negotiation, the establishment of stakes and reputation, the exploration of what each side has to offer and has to lose. There is no higher calling for a warrior of Ceron than this; glory in such a battle builds a legend, and building a legend is how one reproduces.

"After all, to be judged by the Silver Divers, those legendary warriors who missed the troop transport leaving from Bitemark and spent the next thirty years failing to conquer it?" said the Alpha, drawing two bladed fans from her sleeve, movements taking on an oily texture. "Have you considered what you risk, little pup? If you lose here and your line might be discontinued entirely. No more chances for glory, your ancestors dying the death of obscurity. But, instead, if you kneel... well, we will let you drink from such chalices as you have never imagined."

Dyssia!

The Generous Knight laughed bleakly. "The Furnace Knight, who I followed, believed just that: End the experiment, break the chain, let biomancy fall out of the galaxy entirely, put the genie back in the bottle. Liquid Bronze assassinated him. He sent one of his Ikarani, and they killed him while he was pacifying some primitives - just like these. Burned a whole planet and alien armada to do so. Not his idea; the Saoshyant ordered it done."

You remember - on your homeworld, the Great Sage Ohlemi? His home was built atop a decapitated statue - that was the Furnace Knight. The Crystal Knight is a Loyalist, inheritor of the Tyrants. They sought to return society to an idealized past before the rise of biomancy, and when their technological terror failed they were swept away in the chaos.

She extends her hand; that mortal gesture represents an atrocity of plasma and gravity. The swarming spaceships tear themselves apart as the mighty emitters haul them into a vast spread of torpedoes. They crack and break, Engines flashing with the solar flare of released suns.

"Because what the Saoshyant believes in is the completion of the Skies. The elimination of the Void. Filling the darkness between stars with oxygen; moving planets and stars closer together, building a galaxy where you can leap from world to world in a matter of hours with no ship or suit. Is it strange, to think that the leader of our society believes in its ideals? Because she does. In service to beauty, any risk is acceptable. She would accept even the extermination of the Azura if our successor species finished the great work. Even now she does not seek the annihilation of Ceron, but its indoctrination."

Dolce!

For all the coming storm, the final days of the Summerkind are peaceful and happy. You help make it so.

They are all going to die soon - they are already dying, generations passing every day and returning into their egg-shapes to be loaded in the vast arsenals of Liquid Bronze's motley warfleet. By the end of the month all of them will be gone into that quiescence and this colossal battleship will become a floating tomb, tended only by biomancers and Lantern servitors.

But these are creatures who were born never expecting a retirement. All they have known all their lives was violence, and in these fading days they explore the rest the world has to offer. They invent sports - mind-bendingly complicated games, as intense a challenge for their hyperactive minds as their bodies. They invent music. They paint their tomb decks with spectacular murals, write their memoirs, meditate on the temple deck and - more than anything else - pour into your dining halls and feast on the finest foods in the galaxy. They could have learned this too, but even the full intense energy of their brilliant minds would not have bought them close to the heights of flavour you have mastered. For the first time in its history, Hestia walks the deck of the Cancellation.

"Vasilia has been praying for you," said Hestia, holding the tub of chocolate ice cream close to her chest, bear hood lowered as a concession to the temperature. "But I haven't been able to find you until now. It's been too loud. But don't worry, little one - I'll keep you safe and on your way home."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Assassin stared out the window. In the distance, past the shadow of his face reflected in the dark glass, he could see a hellish crimson glow.

His Master was getting impatient. The fool. The demons of hell did not understand that Heaven killed with bureaucracy. Satan's great idiocy was that he applied the personal touch, corrupting souls one by one, tailoring temptation by instinct to the unique traits of each soul. She wanted to be out there, swords in their hands, smiling as the daggers rose. He had held hope that she might have been a peer, but it was clear that she was a mere king. She would need results and soon.

And that would have been fine if it was just kings that he had been dealing with. Driving three kings together promised the deaths of Saber, Rider and Archer in a violent cataclysm, the mess of which could have been easily mopped up by Caster. After that it would be a trivial matter of killing Beserker's master and the prize would have been rescued from the hands of evil. But somehow the barbarian warlord had failed to execute an ambush and shown mercy, Archer had begun his engagement directly, and if there was one hideous truth about warriors it was that they tended to talk endlessly while crossing blades. The more they talked the more of his web would come to light. That could not be allowed.

As much as he hated revealing his hand, perhaps it was time to deploy his field assets.

*

Archer soars in the sky on golden wings. He glows like an angel, a second moon in the sky, and his bellicose laughter rings out for miles as he directs the crash of airborne earth. Holding onto his back, arms around his neck, sipping boba tea out of a straw, is Cyanis. She is having a foxgirl great time.

She is especially stoked that she just uncovered an enormously powerful mana-generating shrine. She'd delayed the pursuit for long enough for Archer to do emergency repairs and draw some siegeworks around it and for her to do some attunement fraud, but now she was juiced. She could maintain Archer's noble phantasm indefinitely like this. It hadn't escaped either of their notice that the shrine had previously been attuned to Actia, meaning that Cyanis now had a huge head start on the coming foxgirl betrayal showdown. And after that, who was going to stop her?

Take out Saber, take out Rider, take out Assassin, and then sit back and have Fluffybiscuits mop up the stragglers. Easy peasy.

*

Diaofei and Opalis, amidst their unhelpful squeaking as boulders and ballista bolts fell around them, continued what was frustratingly becoming less of an interrogation and more of a conversation.

"So what's clear," said Diaofei, "is that our enemy knows where we are. They can manipulate our communications. They sent you to die by our hand, and if I had not... gotten Saber under control... when I did then we would have killed you."
"But then what? If they knew so much then they'd know my Servant would go unsummoned -"
"But what if that's the point?" said Diaofei. "You're a dragon. As Saber said, your mana is all bound up in your physical body. Your death would release it."
Opalis eyes went wide. "Oh no. Oh no no no no," she muttered, putting her claws over her muzzle. "I'm a bomb?"
"Saber, we need to -"

Thwip

The crossbow bolt pierces right through Diaofei's forearm where she raised it to block. The tip, dripping black venom, embeds halfway through the scale right above Opalis' heart.

"Saber!" shouts Diaofei, but it's not necessary. These shadowed creatures, corrupt shades of misfortune on the road - these are aspects of Assassin, your enemy.

Breathless Dead

Bella!

It's a hot day. Was their planet always this hot?

You feel sweat on your brow. You smell the thick, smokey sent of leather curing under the sun. You see the crisp angles of bones beneath flesh that moves and shifts independently. You remember warmth and family, a sister as bright as the sun and trapped within a cage of sweets. Was it always this hot? Breathing is harder. You feel the sun beating down like a fever. Like a fever. Was the sun always this angry?

Their weapons are... clubs. Just hunks of wood and stone. Why do they look so dangerous?

"We appreciate your authority to negotiate," their uncrowned king was saying in the distance. Focus. Focus as a praetor should, as a maid must. "In order to permit an exchange of embassies, we would like the stellar co-ordinates of your home system."

Holding that banner feels heavy. They have refreshments. They smile invitingly. It is so hot. It would be easy to tell them.

Ember!

"Now now," said the alpha of the Star Kings, waving you down as she approaches, trailing neon gold in a bridal train. A legacy of ribbons and translucent silks terminates in savage fishnets, armoured brassier and head crowned in golden antlers. "All of my stuff is in this city."

She is civilized and civilization; she reeks of a new kind of violence: civilian violence. Where she can brutalize you here in front of everyone and no one will raise their hand in your defense. This is her way of war; to strip every defense and ally away, and with it, every choice.

"So I won't deny you have leverage," said the antlered wolf, fingers spinning her cigarette holder. "But only some. Your pack trespassed on my territory, and if I bring them back then they could do far more damage than you alone might. That would make you happy and leave me in peril; why should I make such a bargain?"

Dyssia!

The Generous Knight laughs. "Oh, that takes me back. Did you know I was there when we killed the knights?" Her eye blackens. A hiss of fluid pumps; it is carried away. "I was a prototype biomantic pilot, riding an experimental mecha suit integrated with living metal technology. Against me was an endless empire of mad tyrants. I fought them as their equal, different but similar. Perhaps the High King should be a little less mad. Perhaps the knights should have their battles further away from civilians. Our political demands seemed so reasonable."

She looked out at the advancing Portuguese fleet. The name felt hollow now. Soon they would carve their true name in the stars in blood.

Their ships are not beautiful. The warships of the Skies are elegant orrerys; solar systems in miniature, gravity and grace. These things look diseased; each ship surrounded in swarming, alien locust clouds. When they draw closer to the Generous Knight's ships these swarms flock across the void, gnawing and chewing metal, stripping crystal buttresses and digesting stained glass windows.

The Fleet retreated.

"But it wasn't us Azura Knights that won the war," said the Generous Knight. "It was the Tides. A tsunami of seawater and silk. In the beginning they were useful, interesting tools - extensions of knightly combat, innovations around the edges. Before long I was watching Archdukes being dragged down by thousands of crabs as I stood quietly in the back. It came to horrify me so much that I betrayed the Skies, stood with the Knights, tried to save them. The Tides weren't even mad. I stood in my warmech, hip deep in corpses, killing and killing to stop them - they didn't care. Killing them was my right. So they just flowed around me, killed the human Knights as they had been programmed to do, and kept going."

She turned to look at you, half her face melting off, blood cascading onto the deck as her regeneration warred with the damage to her fleet. "At the end of the war, we surviving Knights of the Skies understood one thing: Biomancy could never be unleashed. We built the Atlas Cultural Sphere on that understanding: a cybernetic implant in every skull, a stopper in the bottle of evolution. You think that servitors are inhumane? Servitors are beautiful. Servitors have empathy. Servitors speak our language, share our values, value our art and feel our emotions. We killed a lot of Biomancers fighting for those things. And now, without the advantages of cybernetic thought control, the only thing keeping them in check is the fact that they're still brainwashing themselves to obey us out of habit."

She turned to look out the window, hands folding behind her back. "And then come you fools in the Publica. You come to us speaking of the rights of smallpox, placing the ideal of bodily autonomy above the necessity of herd immunity. This is why I elevated these savages: to remind the Skies of what monstrosities a culture unbound by our hard-won lessons might produce."

Dolce!

It's a hot day.

It's a hot day. The sun beats down. The alchemy of divine fire that the ancients foolishly attributed to hydrogen intensifies over a void that seems shorter and shorter every day. See the Summerkind taking off their armour as they work at loading their war machines aboard the fleet of spaceships that land upon the planet's surface. See Liquid Bronze call out for ice to cool his drink - the liquefied brains of his clones, by which he will gain the knowledge of his other selves. See the golden ram standing sure-footed atop the distant hill. He is not smiling. All three of his golden eyes are open.

It's a hot day - and hotter every day.

Apollo Phoebus they call him. The brightest. Was he always so bright? Was his attention always so direct? In the temples he is painted with his eyes closed and a smile on his face, and now those things seem like they are related. See the way servitors squint and shield their eyes against the sun. See the tall and brutal warrior standing above the sun. He carries a club of stone, wears a cape of flesh and fur, and holds a bow of silver. Is he shooting you now? Is that from whence this brilliance comes? Was the sun always this bright?

Was the sun... a gift? It was a gift, wasn't it?

You are not free from this judgement. Sweat pours from your back, it curdles in your fur as it does in 20022's. If there is mercy to be had you have not earned it. No one in this civilization has. You do what you can. You get through the day. You move in the shadows as the machinery of extermination swings to bear. You make yourself useful and make yourself kind, you gain access and avert disaster and in your little way do your bit. But day by day it gets hotter. Day by day Apollo glows brighter. Little by little the Skies begin to boil.

Be discreet. There was an old story about a servitor who went mad trying to beat the heat. It's time to lie low, cool and dark. There's a lot that needs administering in the movement of a Quality Assurance armada. This is 20022's dream - to volunteer to do critical work, establishing himself as an invaluable aspect of this organization so that Liquid Bronze will petition for his permanent reassignment. The brighter the sun burns the deeper Artemis' shadows grow - so where do you hide yourself?

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

There is a flicker of hesitation. The faintest sign that Diaofei realizes this might have gone too far.

But a trained mind is a powerful thing. Techniques for emptying thoughts and clearing out distractions are just as effective when used against legitimate doubts. She still has two command seals and Saber's hostility is anything but indiscriminate; now she spoke of justice and not of war. This was simply what control of a barbarian warlord looked like.

"To fight a fox we do not need raw power," she said firmly. "We require information. It can't be a coincidence that the dragon arrived right as we revealed ourselves."
Opalis was held aloft on Saber's shoulders but Diaofei still held caution when approaching; despite the dragon's cowardly aspect she could still strike out with neck, wings or tail and it was best not to bait a serpent even from a position of power. "Your mysterious Servant - did she tell you we were here?"
"No," said Opalis. "She suggested I fly south, but I saw the fire and came myself to see if anyone was in trouble."
"I believe it," muttered Diaofei. "Do you? Believe in your Servant?"
"I, uh," said Opalis. "I certainly hope so?"
"Consider," said Diaofei. "One of the classes in this war is the Assassin, and I have no doubt in my heart that Actia would have drawn that card. What if she killed your Servant before you ever met her and has subsequently been puppeteering your actions?"
"Uh, well, I really don't mean to argue with you Mrs. Monk," said Opalis, "but there were probably easier ways to kill me than send me to fight the Saber."
"Hmm. You're right, but there's something I'm missing about this..." said Diaofei. "Still, given how close you have come to death it seems at minimum that your Servant does not value your life. Have you considered -"

A shadow passed over the moon.

Archer had once again gotten the range.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

> Have you figured it out yet?
> Antipersonnel is a complex issue.
> Oh, yeah?
> Zaldarians especially so. Increasingly likely it feels by design.
Reactor wash or heat dumping would be the simplest way to deal with organics but the energy reallocation counters that at the outset.
Drone support means fighting on the same level as my targets and it becomes vulnerable to Zaldarian tribal hunt tactics.
Increased investment in direct antipersonnel weapons means unbalancing the perfection loop required for flawless victories.
I have not solved it.
> So you're just going to sit in this box?
> I did not say that. The problem is solveable. But I require field test data in order to inform my new design.
My current hypothesis is based around a complete reorientation on the concept of speed, even at the expense of armament.
I will abandon swords and direct weapons and adopt an quadruped chassis type. I will pair this with an integrated artillery system. This will give me unprecedented kiting mobility; able to withdraw over long distances while maintaining sustained fire on my targets. I believe this design has potential.
> So, uh... Really?
> Yes. Why?
> You're describing the Storm Horses. One of the common Gods of Zaldar.
> Curious. Is it particularly powerful?
> No. They get killed by Ash Scorpions all the time. Subterranian ambushes that are over before ranged advantages are bought into play.
> ...
> ...
> The design can be modified to be more resistant to that. Armoured undercarriage, early warning drone swarm -
> Crusher Rhinos.
> What happens to them?
> We usually lure them into the path of Titan Archers.
> Is this... is this what happened to us? To my legion? Why they became devolved, feral, weak, hyperspecialized? Because we could not solve for you fucking reptiles?
> Rude. But maybe, sure.
> I don't believe it. Perfection is a real concept. It can be manifest in a singular point; the ultimate design that can lay waste to every target. The existence of a metagame is simply evidence that not enough thought has been put in.
> I dunno, the Gods of Zaldar have been thinking for an awfully long time.
> I am not like them. I will approach this rationally. I will gather data, integrate with the Spirit Realm, and start isolating factors. I will evolve the perfect design and, once it is attained, the galaxy will remake itself in my image. And until I do, I will adopt my new design - you called it Storm Horse? - because I do not trust your tactical assessment. I shall simply be careful and the design weakness will not manifest.
> I can't argue with that. Good luck out there.
> I do not need luck.

Solarel watched as the Aeteline dragged itself out of the shipping crate. A broken, burning amalgam of nanobots and wreckage, hauled itself into the warm yellow sunlight of Mirror's new world. It warmed Solarel's scales and made the Aeteline's skin bloom with solar panelling like flowers. The half-dead machine shivered, joints cracking and realigning. Smoke poured off it in toxic waves as it remade itself piece by piece.

By the end, it was not the sleek, anonymous perfection of the Aeteline that stood before her any more. It was a vast, mechanical horse; sleek and thundering hooves, a massive bulky railgun projector turret integrated into its back. In shining black and violet it strode away towards the distant plains - pausing only a moment to glance back at its once-Pilot. Mechanical blue lenses whirred as they focused on the girl sitting atop the shipping container, and then with a snort of contempt, the Storm Horse strode away. The first of the Gods of this new world.

Breathless Dead

The Star Kings!

Psuedowolves stumble. Bleeding, broken, shattered. Psuedowolves fall - noses and wrists break as easily as overconfidence. Psuedowolves fall, thrown by twisting gravity, undermined by their augmentations, broken by their lack of unity.

It's all fun and games until somebody shoots at their building. After that it is an inconvenience to be ended immediately.

Crystal lenses lock into place and scorch down in a blistering array of reality-bending diamond-glittering rays. This is the power of the Wolves of Ceron: while the Endless Azure Skies was still experimenting with the basics of crystal technology, the Star Kings had already sniffed out direct military applications with ruthless efficiency. When these rays struck they did not summon dimensional duplicates - they shunted a soul's destiny retroactively down into a dead end, a failed timeline filled with deadly peril. As the lights come down...

Bella!

You have come to a different world; one offset by ten thousand years - no time at all when it comes to geological formation and evolutionary timeframes, but an incredible amount when it comes to the growth of civilizations. The Portugal you see here now is not the flimsy, primitive world of an industrial civilization, but the shining gemstone world that an alien species might have come to in its own isolated splendour. Orbitals glitter in the heavens above and the buildings form fractal pentagon patterns. The people smell healthy, their weapons look deadly. You have been greeted not by inert governments, but a reactive group of diplomats and soldiers who wish to address you, the first visitor from a distant civilization.

"We greet you in peace," said their uncrowned monarch, nose twitching in high-intensity processing. "May we please speak to your administrator species?"

Ember!

The Lantern holds strong, burning against your arm. You are still here, and you are still you - alone now in the shadow of the Star Kings, surrounded by dozens of groaning psuedowolves. You hear the howls of the rival pack. In the distance you see the dark spots against the backdrop of a neon ultralight as the Star Kings descend from their throne to hunt you.

Your weapons are filled with oceans of stolen energy.

Dyssia!

Yours is the world where the Generous Knight has her way.

You see the space elevators breaking through the endless smog, advertisements burning on every inch of their long, silvery surfaces. You see a city of night and electricity, every head crammed full of electronics in defiance of Zeus' law. You see Aphrodite exalting dark kings who can never be for an instant free of desire. You see Apollo's sun overhead burning hot and black and three times its size, as though it is ready for supernova.

You see the fleets overhead. Vast shipyards churn through every mote and atom of matter in the system in prayer to Mars, reconstituting it into a fleet of galactic conquest. You see it all from the Generous Knight's throne room. It is beautiful in an ancient way, the centre of a thriving oaken forest, filled with endless schools of fish in every shade of blue that eat the acorns from the verdant trees. The magnificent silver-green dress of the Generous Knight connects her flesh in a thousand places to this thriving ecosystem that extends throughout the entire structure of her ship.

This is her weapon, her artistic project, her legend in the Skies: Shared Life. Through Hera's generosity she can take the damage of any of her injured upon her own body, a martyr for the Skies. Through Demeter's dark genius, she has shared her body with this entire ship-wide ecosystem. Her blood circulates through every tree, fish and microbe. To kill her means killing this entire place; to kill her servants means killing this entire place, to kill this place means overcoming the ship worth of biomantic doctors dedicated to ensuring its rapid regrowth and healing.

"Is it not magnificent?" asked the Generous Knight as the first distant flashes of plasma fire began. "To see a civilization remade in more perfect service to the Gods. To see them with the strength required to challenge the Skies at last - and perhaps, if they are clever, to overthrow us. Is this not what you of the Publica desire? An end to our tyranny, a sop to the lesser species, the death of Knights? Is not this moment a necessary step on the path to your perfect galaxy?"

Dolce!

You emerge into the daylight.

Summerkind are standing up from their trenches. They are walking across No Man's Land, looking at their duplicates on the other side. They are picking up the bloody and ruined, staunching bleeding and cleaning wounds. Overhead every now and then there is a detonation as the last few fighter spheres finish their dogfights, far out of range of any communication. Stunned army formations watch the beauty of them as they swoop and dive and descend in flames.

Liquid Bronze's bunker unfolds like a puzzle box, every panel sliding apart and reconfiguring, pushed by Summerkind labourers. The acrid smell of solid projectile smoke is pushed from your nose by a cool breeze. Millions of eyes raise up to look at the Biomancer-General as his bunker reconfigures into a massive walking palanquin. He waves like the pope down at the little people. One by one they wave back.

Unit after unit, legion after legion, formation after formation comes to crowd around him. Millions and millions coming from miles around to stare up in awe at their creator. Long lost comrades recognize each other and embrace. Disbelieving laughter and cheers are infectious. As Liquid Bronze blows kisses into the crowd shock resolves into joy. Cheering starts more wildly. Music is started. Dancing. A spontaneous party stretching for miles. This repeats itself half a dozen times across the planet, clustered around different Liquid Bronze clones on their different palanquins.

(Already these decay. With the war over these copies of Liquid Bronze have a lifespan measured in days. "A good leader never asks anything of his men that he wouldn't do himself," Liquid Bronze explains to 20022.)

The sun shines. The war is over.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Wait! Don't hurt me!" cried the dragon in pain, lying flat and nonresisting. "My name is Opalis! I'm not a warrior! I'm a Tantric Economist! My Servant isn't even here yet!"
"A what?" said Diaofei, stepping up behind.
"A - a Tantric Economist!" said Opalis, smiling frantically. "I'd offer you my card but - look, so, society is peaceful because people have got a handle on greed and ambition, right? But that's a delicate order maintained by cultural values and spiritual development. Outliers and remnants of the old world exist that are still dominated by material desires, so our order's duty is to hoard technomantic wealth and power so we can find people who might otherwise be tempted by greed and offer them its absolute fruits until they burn out on it and realize that it's meaningless."
Diaofei nodded. "So in other words, it's a group of dragons collectivizing their hoarding instinct and concealing it behind a flimsy spiritual justification."
"That's -" Opalis looked like she was about to argue, then her eyes glanced back at Saber's knee on her neck. "- yeah sure. Point is I can help you - I am authorized to economize against my order's holdings and -"
Diaofei ignored her. She had produced a compasslike magical instrument of platinum and gold, layers of rings wrapping each other. She walked around, twisting the rings into new configurations, taking in the ley of energy. "A half truth," she said. "Her Servant isn't here - but she's watching. I cannot tell from where. Why? Waiting for the right moment? Or maybe a dragon is even worse a Master than I? All that mana and it's bound up in her physical body..."
"She sends me letters," Opalis said, making a face. "Said there was a font of mana here. Look, just tell me what you want - I promise we can make a deal."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"And what will you do with your victory, champion mine?" said Solarel, playful - and restrained. There was much that she could be doing with such an embrace but wasn't, but this time it was not awkward introversion that held her back. It was a virtuous surrender; a principled acknowledgement that her defeat would not teach her anything if she did not allow herself to be taught. The Code of Zaldar had expectations of the defeated as well as the victorious.

So defeat held her hands as still as any rope. But, as with hands bound by rope, that did not mean they were not there to be used.

"In defeating me you have defeated my people," said Solarel, tilting her head as though she craved another kiss - one that was not hers to take. "In defeating my people you have defeated the entire galaxy," she liked the rhythm of the words, the repetition and realignment. She liked the voice she could use in this moment, the only freedom left to her - no, demanded of her. She spoke because it had been the first command of her Whispered Promise. "In defeating me - did you know my wish?"

The playfulness flitted away from her. "It was to hold the tournament again, but each pilot would be assigned to a random god. Mechanics would have time to make modifications of course, time enough to adjust your controls... but... why I wanted it was because it was the only way I could imagine to really have fun fighting again. With the Aeteline, it felt like I was trapped in a solved equation and there was nothing I could do but improve until I broke. Even when I was piloting other mechs it felt like I was stealing victories using techniques that would never work against the bar I set for myself, and anything I did to have fun would come at the cost of risking losing and having to stop fighting entirely. Maybe for good. I envied all my opponents so much, being free to express themselves with their gods rather than obliterating themselves in service to their gods..."

She sighed. Even through all the toxicity that had gone into it, despite how wrong its premises had been shown to be, it still hurt to give voice to and give up on a dream. "That was my dream. Endless battle, freedom, experimentation, exploration, transformation. Please, tell me of the wish that defeated it."