Twist of luck

[Namespace] of the Rose

"You might have started with it?..", Toros politely kicked the body of skitarii out of her way as it showered her with sparks and winced glancing at a barrel with her eyes half-closed. "I am all ears, lady".

It was not the first time someone held her at gunpoint. In fact, people loved having communications in this specific way - threatening violence to be in control over the situation. They always feel like you have no choice but to listen as you are held at gunpoint.

There was always a choice. She made sure about it a long, long time ago, when she figured out that being held at gunpoint is an inevitable consequence when dealing with people of violent professions. Photon flash grenades, inbuilt into the gorget of her armour, detonated a second before their blind-out cousins, blessing the area with a violent flash of light before putting it into a complete hazed-out darkness.

She wouldn't dare it against Astartes. The old hag was no Astartes. And it's not like a glancing hit from laspistol would have been the first or the last one she'll experience. Secunda knew her personal lodge rather well to operate blindly. It was a time to test the limits of the eidetic memory of this squad. Las-emitters in her arms warmed up, ready for wide-dispersal beams of punishing light.

Pulverise the girl's hands first - gloves are underarmoured after the plasma burn, even if she's painwarded, the loss of operational capability would be sufficient. Crone should get a full blast center-mass, almost point-blank - likely enough to throw her away, possibly enough to incapacitate her, probably allowing using her as a temporary cover against the big guy, unlikely to kill her outright. Should buy her an extra second in case the big guy is tough enough to penetrate the fog or just sprays and prays like people of his caliber often tend to do under stress. Hence, creating a window of opportunity to reach for a plasma gun and check if her own insulation is up to the challenge.

As she was diving forward through the chaos, she caught herself smiling. "Go with the flow". She missed these adrenal spikes ever since the war.

[Namespace] of the Rose

Adeptus Astartes, famously, did not involve themselves in politics. The reasoning behind that was something about humans getting to be ruled by regular humans, not transgened monstrosities bred for war.

This was a lie, of course, and a very flimsy one. The highest ruling body, the High Twelve, has been a testament to that lie - psykers from Astronomican and Astra Telepatica, abhuman strains from Navigator houses, bioengineered murder machines from Officio and Custodian Guard, an ascended form of Fabricator General - humans were ruled by things stranger and more alien than Astartes and nobody got to object that. The truth, as Toros assumed it to be, was hidden in plain sight all along.

Astartes were children, brainwashed and thrown into the hellish meatgrinders to do what no ordinary man could do. They could - they did - conquer the Galaxy. They could not comprehend ruling it, having no frame of reference outside of the battlefield. With time and effort, they could reforge themselves into decent rulers (Imperium definitely seen worse), but that would mean stepping out of the comfort zone and assuming accountability over their decisions as rulers. Children were never good at doing that. Too bad that their Allfather was not there to gently guide them in that direction.

Which is why Astartes, the spoiled bloody cherubims of war, enjoyed playing politics without a care about the consequences of their choices. They were not supposed to hang around and see how their momentary choices shaped the future of the Imperium; they were allowed to walk away to another deployment. They involved themselves in politics at every step, just preferring to hover above menacingly and fly away once they are not in the mood - leaving somebody older, smarter, and, likely, more depressed, to pick up the pieces. Just like Adeptus Mechanicus and Custodian Guard were left to sort out that scorching crater left in the Imperial leadership circa M36.

Astartes make moves, and you react to them. Sometimes they even make moves you want them to make. At all times, they are a major pain in the ass.

She turned around to the armour-matron, glancing her up and down. You can't bargain with Astartes. She was no Astartes. And the very fact that she was here proved that she was already bargaining.

"Words matter not, choices do. I chose to appeal to the Angel of Death to avoid pointless bloodshed. Your master chose to leave me alive and sent you here, fully informed of my proposal. You chose to come here and negotiate my terms, can appreciate that, no time now. In sixty seconds, I will have to choose to resolve the problem less elegantly, some blood of good men needlessly spilled, my proposal terminated, you'll have to get the answer out of me... less elegantly. Choose wisely.", Secunda's voice had a cadence of metronome until interrupted by a soft scoff. "If it makes the choice easier for you, I may solemnly swear to get my tits out for lady Sarra. In about a week, of course, once the surgeons are done."

[Namespace] of the Rose

Knowledge is power. Guard it well. Know where to share some of it to keep the rest of it.

"Lady Sarra patches me into the magna-vox hailer network. You stand by my side as I make a proclamation pacifying the crowd. I tell you the answer to the riddle, proofs attached.", Secunda winced as she made another step towards the edge of the platform. "Should I say something too beyond pacifying the crowd or should you find my answer unconvincing, well, I bet that bolter is not just for decorative purposes."

Toros has secured her position, not in the least, through Astartes support. Addressing the crowds with a visible support of the First would provide a reminder, decently rhyming with that blood-soaked past.

[Namespace] of the Rose

Secunda twitched the corner of her mouth, as she shook the micro-bead away. At the very least, the gunfight simmered down quite a bit, as the crowd focused on the Emperor's Angel soaring in the sky. A rather powerful symbol, truly, even Toros felt herself genuinely awed.

In the better days, she was assured of her capability to kill this thing, should the worst come to pass. These days, it boiled down to "hurt this thing (if really lucky)". On any day, future or past, Archmagos Toros made it to her rank through picking her fights, and fights with something delightfully called "Angels of Death" firmly rested in the "Let's not" category. Those things felt at home on a battlefield, their reflexes well accustomed to your fight-or-flight reactions, and, usually, those reflexes boiled to killing you whether you fight or flee. Which is why she knew better than to attempt either.

She got its attention with a riddle, it got the attention of the crowd. A proper reaction to the "heretic" or the "traitor" from the warrior of the famed First Order would have been a swift execution. So far, this thing was just flying above and looking at her in a rather menacing way. He has been staying at the research facility for quite some time, meaning that a warrior who knew no fear... was familiar with the concept of learning and general curiosity. Quest for Knowledge takes many forms, after all, and she was giving him an opportunity to learn who dared to mock their sacred form.

Secunda politely leaned in a courtly half-bow, hands linked in an Aquila, and stood out of the cover. She got its attention with a riddle. It would need her to survive another ten seconds to get an answer.

Surviving after those first ten seconds might have been problematic, though. But those were the problems for ten-seconds-in-the-future, older, wiser version of her. She'll manage.

[Namespace] of the Rose

'One riot, one regulator. Ain't no bravado, lass, it is what it is on the streets down there. And lemme tell you som'tn - Schola ain't raised no reinforc'ment-beggin' pussies, we do what we do and Emperor smite my 'clast ass on this spot if we can't manage that just fine like that.'

She had known Pavel well before she had to address him as Justicar Armata. Granted, she made a painfully poor first impression being used as a human shield by some whiteout-pumped Redemptionist, but she reserved the right to be displeased by being shot through to 'neutralize the perp'. Factor Secundus Toros really damn appreciated that original liver of hers, and losing one at her own embassy event has put her in a rather sour mood. His attempt at an apology put the hastily installed vat-grown replacement through a cruel stress test - the first sip tasted like hell, the second almost took her there.

She taught him how to make his hobby brews less likely to blind the user, how to whisper dataslate override prayers and how a strongly-worded letter can be more lethal than a needle-shot. He taught her how to enjoy opera, how to shoot a boltgun and how to survive on the streets.

"People don't see you", he said. 'They see their idea of you. It's not about actually being invincible; it's about everyone being too scared to try and check it out. We kill the idea of resistance - not with a bullet, but with the idea of punishment. We just use the bullets to illustrate the latter one. I may not kill the whole crowd, but I sure as hell can make every single one of the poor fraggers think that I shall kill him personally."

He did not survive the new batch of empty-eyed low-lives screaming of the Emperor's Second Coming, the ones who knew no fear. They laughed at her as she raised the alarm. Nobody was laughing after the first autopsies. To fear is human. Those were not. His statue - right between the opera house and the brewery - has been commissioned by an incognito patron after the war. She never visited.

The idea of punishing a traitor has been stronger than the sheer vulture habits of the usual rioters - likely because people were building this goddamn idea up from the ground for ten millennia and she has just done some extraordinarily deep job in reinforcing that. Fortunately for her, people are only so good at building ideas. About ten millenia ago, someone much smarter offered a new idea to the whole galaxy, an iron promise made flesh, an armoured boot choking on the galaxy throat.

They could dare call her a traitor, her pleas falling on deaf ears. Let them try doing that to...

"Sir Kim, I would like to offer you a riddle. What is above two meters tall, clad in power armour, proficient with bolter and tried assassinating an Archmagos?", Secunda's voice grew a little hoarse as she guesstimated the proper frequencies of his power armour comms. She took a rather wide transmission width, not really bothered if anyone cares to eavesdrop. "The true answer might surprise both you and your gracious electromancer host. I would be eager to discuss it in detail if you do me a favor and address this whole goddamn crowd before it all turns to a needless bloodbath. The Emperor Protects."

Nobody in their right might would accuse an Angel of Death directly. Still, Secunda had no doubt that the esteemed guest was sharp enough to understand that anyone asking "Who is deadly enough to kill Archmagos with a mere bolter?" would inevitably be drawn to a sole Astartes visiting this world. Astartes were feared - for good reason - but, usually, they were far away, killing unnameable things on the far stars. Even an implication of a shadow on their honour has been the one way to ensure that they are going to take it personally.

[Namespace] of the Rose

At their first council after the victory parade, PWD-40 objected that the casualty count methodology should be recalibrated. Prometheologist, with some unusual passion, claimed that even those who managed to remain technically alive may have been so irreparably damaged, that their spirit, their soul, the person that they were supposed to be, was gone forever. Toros prayed for the strength to think that was not true. But if it was, then no one on Isohedron had survived this war.

Everyone got uniquely marked, and yet she could not help figuring out the patterns - theorists and theologians stepping aside for militants and experimenters, oversight loosened, violence rates increased, brute force started being common, mercy started being a luxury... Desperate measures tend to overstay the desperate times that once called for them, with people justifying their normalization through gilding them with the sparkles of victories long past. The fragging Draupnir problem was simmering for millennia, but just some arrogance of being THE Hive defeaters and they started thinking themselves to be at least a second Mars, the best thing since servitors were invented.

She almost avoided mourning the death of their more gentle, civilian selves - there have always been greater wonders hidden in people than the ones lost. She would just prefer if people made it a bit easier to see those potential greater wonders, which was positively harder when the apex decision-making of one of her court favourites defaulted to "Me has bigger stick, so me bonk". For Cog's sake, even the ogryns of Malpais V tried to keep the pretenses with elder councils, ritual judgement, and honour duels. And those had to limit the council number to four elders due to a lack of mental capacity to count to five.

Secunda kicked down the door of the premium lodge with a bit more force than was necessarily required and caught herself ready to execute any poor soul who decided to occupy her reserved spot in the arena less than a month after her death. The war spoke to her through her reflexes and learned patterns. She silenced that voice inside of her. She sighed and went vocal on the private channel, since she needed to silence it in ZRK-333 as well.

"I approve your choice of words - 'Not a fight but an execution'.
Never had I wished for a better executioner than you. Still need a judge. Still need some jury.
I admire your Motive Force cutting a path through. Still need God-Machine. Still need Omnissiah.
Kneeling to one of them out of expedience is making your right through might.
This would mean ignoring the rituals of judgment. To break with ritual is to break with faith.
If you spark this light, the coolant condensate splash of my legitimization shall not save either of us from the pyre.
Do not grace the traitors with martyrdom by allowing their corporeal component to go out with a bang.
Disgrace of the formal judgement would put their ill ideas out of everyone's options with some long, satisfactory whimper.
This is not a request for mercy. This is how Creed dictates we handle traitors.
Stepping back from the Creed to punish a traitor leaves the world with the same number of traitors.
We are better than that. You are better than that.
Never had I wished for a better executioner than you. Never have I given you grounds to think me an unfair judge.
No execution has been ordered.
Yet."

Ultimately, the war has wounded their ideals, degraded them to militant barbarism. Motive Force adepts were better than most at adapting to this new paradigm in a noble way, perhaps even too proficient in this shift for their own good. Archmagos was here to mend the wounds, to restore faith in proper order and ensure that Isohedron remains an example of things working out by the fragging book. It was her sole responsibility to drag the dogs of war back into the kennel, no matter how they bark, bite or look at her with puppy eyes.

She was of the firm opinion that overriding someone's decision solely through pulling rank was the thing you do before removing said someone from their position. Secunda prayed that nobody would force her to pull rank right now.

[Namespace] of the Rose

Officially, Toros had never spoken to one Altero-Seventeen. Officially, not a lot of personnel talked to the malatek, the old xenarite bastard being too toxic a datapoint in one's biography to ever dare putting him on your official holo-dex of contacts. A runner-up for the Fabricator position centuries ago, Altero has been too careful to ever pin anything outright heretical onto him, too influential to make a proper play against him, and had enough tricks up his sleeve to routinely send back exquisite servitors stitched together from multiple assassin teams. Officially, the correspondence from a Shepherd-Captain of "Blindsight" tallied up to regular Explorator reports from everlasting voyage.

Unofficially, the old void arachnid was quite a chatterbox - centuries of solitude amongst his automated crew made him long for any interaction, and the Lord-Captain could not refuse an invitation from someone who just saved their cargo from accursed corsairs. Toros had done her duty to advise against it, and, unfortunately, had to follow the Rogue Trader into what she expected to be the heretek's den on the bridge of "Blindsight". She returned with a data-djinni ravaging through mem-corder storages, a new pen pal, and a smile.

Altero dissected devices and got exiled for that - even though his "Mesh-17" configuration had been enhancing flak vests of Astra Militarum ever since his glory days. Altero dissected bodies and got good (if somewhat bored) with that - "Blindsight" rare reports during the war provided some of the crucial intel regarding the Hive Ship weakpoints. Altero's personal interest, though, gravitated towards dissecting societies. Explorator has been keenly interested in the catastrophe of Azure Skies and how it could be replicated to ensure any enemy disintegration before the Crusades even launch. His mind wandering, he often questioned his own society structures to prevent such a catastrophe from ever happening in the Houndclaw.

Altero taught her a lot of lessons, and she guarded most of them well. There was this one, though, that she shared with ZRK-333 in her moment of... trust.

This was a lesson in applied dogmaticism, for the open mind was a vulnerable mind, and one should narrow his beliefs in the name of ideological operational security, making it most efficient for the task at hand. Humanity learned this concept, yet it was neither the first to learn it nor the best to implement it. According to the xenarite, at least one strain of accursed Eldar had embraced this concept of utilitarian philosophical mindsets, locking into some worldview for the specific mission - quite like the Imperial Adepta implementing their own dogmas among the personnel. Unlike the Imperial Adepta personnel, though, those creeds were just tools for the overarching goal, something to be temporarily embraced and changed, discarded, evolved as the circumstances demanded it. Most Eldar switched their "Paths", while still operating within the larger beneficial framework of shared values. This, according to xenarite, was some of the most intriguing aspects of their society - its crude imperial applications amounting to infil-traitor technologies and slate agents replacing parts of their personality for better impersonation, mostly singular and unscalable assets.

Unfortunately, the grim lesson here has been that even amongst Eldar, who had been rather proficient with this system, there has been... mishaps. Sometimes, you were so locked into a specific path, so bought into its dogma, that you completely lost your adaptability, becoming a grotesque, larger-than-life, embodiment of the path's strength and weaknesses - something to be exploited and something sealing your fate, becoming a tool for this Path rather than the other way around. Melancholic old malatek ended that transmission with a sad rhetorical question of how much efficiency had the Cult lost due to all of the Cogs of the Grand Design losing themselves on their Path to Faith?

His tendency to voice such questions was among the reasons why even Toros could not negotiate the end of his exilic exploration duty - which she was pretty damn open about. It did not mean that he was wrong. It did not matter if he was right.

ZRK-333 taught Toros her path, the path of Motive Force, "do before thinking, go with the flow, settle on a quick and imperfect solution than allow the problem to fester while you ponder for an optimal one". Toros has been a grateful pupil, but, unfortunately, was not able to return that favour. It pained her deeply, but the electromancer, at the core of her being, was too synchronized with the Motive Force to leave more space for Omnissiah and the Machine God. Theoretically, it caused quite some miscommunication between her and her Martian brethren.

Practically, it caused her to do some stupid shit like trying to start a civil war in the middle of the goddamn succession crisis. Which was an illegitimate succession crisis, because the Archmagos was alive in the first place, but nooooooo, let's kill each other while the lights are down, thinking for a cog-damned microsecond would be against the whole "going with the flow" thing. Stupid hothead, eager to make the wheels run faster without thinking that she's about to drive into a fragging wall.

Toros had to consciously unclench her jaw as her teeth started to hurt, as she furiously shot the ping into the ZRK-333 personal channel.

"Combat flow: Escalation. You fight Passivity. Ergo - conflict.
Conflict flow: Escalation. Astartes and Inqusition join up. Ergo - war.
War flow: Escalation. Martian Magi tear Isohedron apart, while Draupnir stands aside and laughs. Ergo - politics.
Politics flow: Escalation. With Draupnir unbalanced, the whole sector Adeptus operations are impacted and Hollzenstein has the last laugh. Ergo - defeat.

Cease. You cannot win here. Nobody wins here. Cease.

Access request: Magna-vox casters of the Arena. Archmagos is here to mediate the conflict and address the subjects. I am sorry for being away and leaving you alone.

Personal audience request after we clean up here. I missed you."

Secunda stopped for a second, biting her lip, and started double-timing towards the nearest premium lodge, while keeping the vidcast of the assassin body in the periferal stream. Investigation was more important than combat (especially since the goddamn Angel of Death has been there to handle it all). Politics was something to care so that she had a world to rule once all of it is over.

And you definitely need a good seat in the front row to make your first public appearance. Optics matter beyond laser calibration - where you are seen is important, just as who you are seen with. Speaking of...

Secunda cursed under her breath, blink-typing another message. Even the most primitive meta-impulse unit grafting would be so much more streamlined. Apparently one needs to lose Omnissiah blessings to reignite the appreciation.

"November.

Assassination attempt at the arena. Public disturbance on the verge of riot. Negotiating with ZRK-333 to quell it down before we plunge into a civil war. About to make a public address. Need one of you-s standing by my side as I am speaking.

Thank me later for being
Sincerely yours,
Biotrash."

[Namespace] of the Rose

Every single magos worth their voltage has... something aside from work. Nobody could change their nature completely, so everyone carried the primordial sin of flesh irrationality, something fools denied, morons combatted, lunatics employed and professionals redirected. That being said, most magi had firmly put it into the "it's personal" category - likely because it, ultimately, was.

Which is why Toros made a constant effort to figure out what the rest of the Conclave are doing in their spare time. She knew them as magi, she needed to know them as, well, persons. Besides, she openly invited them to some of her more tame pastimes. For example, around five years ago, she managed to tune the laser array at some of the more rarefied wavelengths, allowing for a persistent ionisation trail to create a purely light-based and surprisingly persistent afterimage in the air - a glorious display of luminosity dwarving the pale flickers of holo-tech devices at only two magnitudes of energy consumption above nominal level. Was it practical? Unlikely. Still, flashing image of Omnissiah descending onto the spire on his dragon wings was positively glorious and made a lasting impression onto most watchers. That was not surprising.

The surprising part came the next day as the usually reclusive prometheologist sent a curt, yet insistent request for knowledge sharing. Toros was too baffled and intrigued by this behavioural aberration to politely decline. She had spent a week in the domain of PWD-40, explaining hows and whys, as the mistress of the scorched ocean eagerly listened. Toros almost believed that she had found someone with a comparable love of light in all its forms. Even Archmagos could make a mistake from time to time.

Magi outlets told a lot about them. Sometimes, even things that you never wanted to know. Half a year later, Toros stepped into the demonstration area, the proud PWD sharing her private, exclusive piece de resistance as a payment for shared knowledge. She walked out with the afterimages imprinted deep into her memory, not even speaking of retinas. PWD-40 been in hell, carried a piece of it in her ever since, and allowed for some intimate peeking. This was not the Light Toros strived to know and love - this was a pure incursion into the gauntlet of fire, her own tech projecting it at its delightful glory.

Incidentally, it looked pretty damn much the same as being shot with an incendiary grenade. Granted, the grenade felt a bit worse. The default expectation would be to stop, drop, and roll, which is how a lot of stupider people die, since ignitium, an ugly thing, is perfectly capable of burning on the ground, in the dirt, under water and, technically, in the vacuum. Fortunately, it worked a lot slower and colder than Phosphor, which is why Secunda had postponed her transition into steak. Her body started acting following the well-trained routines.

Her left hand - triggering the smoke grenade on her back, breaking the line of sight with a veil of multi-coloured smoke.
Her right hand - using the monosharpened claws to puncture the key nodes holding the outer armour layer, dropping it on the ground to burn into a crisp.
Her legs - carrying her forward and to the right, straight into the closest cover.
Her eyes - trying to make sense of the telemetry, as the suit data-angels scrambled to explain her what was happening among the mess.

Her voice... hoarsely laughing. She hadn't had such a good time in quite a while.

[Namespace] of the Rose

Paranoia had its benefits. Prefired synapses are warmed up for snap reactions to the sudden trigger, hands already warming up the initiation sigils, eyes on the lookout for danger.

Paranoia had its drawbacks. Namely, it is only receptive to the first trigger, discharging all energy into the first fight, flight, or freeze response. And, Omnissiah be Secunda's witness, Spark was stunningly beautiful right then and there. It was all about her. Always.

Granted, Toros herself has been predictable. Everyone could know that under duress, she would have hit this place for some guidance with the flow. And here she was, middle of a trap, dumbfounded, smitten and slowly getting really damn angry.

"Roger. Lead on. Over."

[Namespace] of the Rose

This arena was a combat research facility. It was not merely designed to research combat. It used combat to research everything else that its mistress considered interesting.

ZRK offered a single promise with her dojo - "we can learn to defeat more with less". Electromancer considered it to be a logical statement, an optimization creed. Toros saw it for what it is - the best sales pitch since the Ironstrider fiasco, it just needed some extra weight.

There have been cases of dishonourable honour duels, rigged betting, unauthorized augmentation, blatant identity theft, weird cadaver desecration and at least a dozen disappearances around those parts. Those operational costs did not matter. People wanted to be here, to fight here, to prove themselves here, to buy local recordings, to access datafiles of developed techniques, to bet, to win, to have a talk in private and to be seen having those talks in private. ZRK-333 may have created a combat research facility. Toros made it into a landmark, something no other magos had afforded to ignore completely.

Tiefebronn used lodges for negotiations, leveraging Toros hands-off approach to play his own game behind layers of privacy fields. Pinel had a steady income stream through providing combat servitors - and a steadier one through making servitors from dropouts, which she, for whatever reason, thought to be a secret to anyone. At least a couple of shadier championship matches had an unmistakable trace of Stoll toys being deployed. Passivity-SEA ensured Tech-Guard outreach in exchange for premium access to raw data - her holy vow not to compete in algorithm development unbroken, Toros was moderately sure that both Iconia's irritating awareness of what happens within those walls and some of the more successful semi-official betting outfits carried the mark of the datamancer's personal touch. Even the firepower recluse graced them - while PWD research has been, of course, too important to interrupt for stupid games, multiple arms manufacturers operating under his licensing were slowly pulled into the arena orbit, their coats-of-arms on champion cloaks, their prototypes blasting the way to the podium.

ZRK hated it all at first. Too many data distractions, she said. Too much stuff around to do more with less, she thought. Too different from her design to be completely her project, she claimed. Warp having no fury as an electromancer scorned, they had a cozy little war about it - fighting with words in the meetings, with proxies in the dark alleyways, with loyalists in the limited spire engagements, and, finally, with their bodies in one of the more sacred, secret arenas of the building.

Both of them won, and understanding has been reached. An understanding deeper than any of them wanted.

ZRK-333 had lived a full month in the world where Archmagos Toros was dead, her promise "Worst case projection - I'll be back the next morning" cruelly broken. Secunda was not sure how Spark would react to a formally unrecognized clone, and, once again, reminded herself to use a proper addressing style for the esteemed Magos. The only thing Secunda knew - or, at least, really wanted - to be true would be the fact that ZRK-333 would love to go for some extremely flashy vendetta against whoever harmed Toros. Toros would do the same for her, that's for sure.

A flash of the warning rune in the bottom of the retinal display snapped Secunda back into reality. Someone's adrenaline was climbing a bit too steep for her comfort.

"Trigger discipline, Celestian. If you want to fight those beasts, don't do it for free. Besides, you've already killed some of them once - took a lot of skitarii logistics to bring us samples fresh enough to kill those again.", protomaga chuckled into the comms. "The mistress of this facility learns things through the way they move. Don't give yourself away just yet. You'll get your chance soon enough anyway."

Spark never really answered any of her two questions directly, she just authorized a visit and assigned a time slot. Granted, she would never use mere words to communicate the most important things. This arena was a combat research facility. It was not merely designed to research combat. It used combat to research everything else that its mistress considered interesting.

Ghost of Archmagos Past silenced the rune warning, adrenaline always being her own, and blinked away the curt missive.

"In position. Your move."