Warren moved back toward the bond with the cadets, the pulse of their collective presence flickering faintly at the edge of his mind. They were far off, scattered across the storm-wracked fields, but he could feel them, a distant warmth pressing against the cold weight of the blizzard. The sensation grounded him, an anchor in the endless white. He began to move at speed, his steps light, almost soundless, cutting through the snow like a ghost. Every gust pressed against him, yet the storm parted as if it knew who commanded it. The blizzard whispered through his senses, pulling him toward that faint thread of belonging he'd left behind.

The world was blinding. Even with his link to the storm, visibility was gone. The snow was so dense it felt alive, swirling with a pulse that matched his own heartbeat. He leaned into the wind until the world blurred, the edges of his perception dissolving into white noise. The storm itself responded to him, curling and tightening, breaking where he passed, folding around his movement like it wanted to hide him. He didn't know how long he'd been running. Time bled into rhythm, his breathing keeping the beat for the storm's song.

He thought about how they had made it over the wall unseen. The snow had been too thick, the air too heavy for anyone to notice three figures clearing Graveholt's barrier in a single bound. Even if someone had seen through the storm, they wouldn't have seen a Legion soldier. They would have seen a boy in a yellow jacket swallowed by the white, his ghost-veil active and blending him with the storm's fury. The defenders had other problems anyway; they had the Red Widow.

He could hear her even now, faint through the walls of snow, laughter and song winding through the wind. The sound was light, musical, almost pure, and that made it worse. Melody was already making new friends. He could picture her skipping between soldiers, delighted by their screams. She wasn't evil; she was only a child-like echo of joy and ruin, a creature who didn't understand what she was doing. Her play was death. Her joy was destruction. She didn't mean to kill; it simply happened around her. That was her nature.

Warren clenched his jaw, snow stinging against his faceplate. And I left her there. He had done it knowing exactly what it meant. He had dropped her into a city that had no idea what was coming. They had prepared for a blizzard, not for a storm of blood. Behind him, Graveholt was bleeding. Through the snow's distortion, he saw the faint bloom of crimson light spreading like a wound across the horizon. It pulsed with rhythm, red and pink flashes flickering against the night. He could almost smell the iron tang in the air.

He moved faster, blurring through the snow. The cold clawed at him, but the storm moved with him, rolling in long, low waves that swallowed his form whole. Every breath felt like a command; the weather obeyed without question. He needed to reach the others before anyone noticed he was gone. The longer he was missing, the more dangerous it became. Please, he thought, don't let them have figured it out yet.

When the faint shimmer of the cadets' presence flared in the bond, he began to slow. The storm dimmed its fury, folding inward into a heavy, low hum, still loud enough to hide everything, but softer now, more controlled. Shapes began to form in the distance; silhouettes caught between veils of snow. The closer he came, the thicker the white grew again, blinding and absolute. No one could see anything more than a few paces away. Perfect.

He could sense them through the bond long before they would ever see him, Varnai's steady focus, Chime's sharp anxiety, Sylen's slow-burning frustration. Their emotions overlapped like heat against the cold. They felt him approaching but couldn't tell from where. They'd been expecting the copy he'd left behind, the clone that stood in for him while he was gone. It would vanish when he stepped back into place, and in this storm, no one beyond Class One would ever notice the exchange. The storm saw to that.

He moved closer, step by step, letting the blizzard wrap tighter around him. The snow spiraled upward in fine mist, bending the light until he became one with the white. He could make out shadows now, figures shifting, weapons drawn, the faint glow of mech-lights trying to pierce through the haze. His clone was among them, standing just as it should, silent and motionless. For a moment, he watched himself from a distance, the unreal sight of his own posture facing the others. Then, as he stepped into the perimeter, the image dissolved, melted into him. No one noticed. The illusion was seamless.

The storm's pressure eased. He could finally feel the warmth of the cadets through the link, faint but familiar. Relief pulsed through the bond, followed by anger, confusion, and guilt all tangled together. They knew he'd gone, at least Class One did. They were afraid for him, afraid of what he'd done, and what it meant. But they didn't blame him. They understood. Any of them would have done the same thing if it meant saving the others. Still, the weight of it pressed on him like lead. He wasn't sure he'd ever forgive himself.

He let the storm settle behind him, rolling away into the distance as Graveholt's red light flickered in the dark. The sound of Melody's laughter still drifted faintly through the snow, bright and distant, echoing like a song carried on the wind. Warren lowered his head and whispered into the cold, "I'm sorry." The words disappeared instantly, but the storm understood. Somewhere far behind him, the city screamed.

As Vaeliyan slipped back into the storm and rejoined the ranks, Warren faded into silence, his identity dissolving beneath the white chaos that howled around them. The command link snapped shut behind him, and the blizzard began to collapse in on itself, thinning as he had ordered before abandoning his true self to the storm. The air settled heavy and metallic, every breath sharp enough to sting. For a brief, impossible heartbeat, everything was still. Then the comms crackled alive again, a distorted voice breaking through the static with desperate urgency.

"All forces, return! The Red Widow has made it into the city. I repeat, the Red Widow has entered Graveholt. Extreme threat confirmed. Maximum casualties expected. Anyone who can hear this… anyone… if you can respond, we need help. We need support. If it comes to it… nuke the city."

The voice fractured into noise and died. The words hung there, echoing through the storm. Kasala stood beside his command transport, cloak whipping violently in the wind. Snow hissed against his armor, his expression set in stone as the last words faded. "Wait," he said, voice low and even, disbelief restrained beneath command. "She made it into the city?"

The nearby mech pilots exchanged uneasy looks inside their cockpits. The light from Graveholt burned faintly in the distance, red against the blinding white. Their home had turned from sanctuary to slaughter in seconds. Everything they had worked to save was now the heart of ruin. The silence that followed was deep enough to feel. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

Lucy's voice broke through, edged with panic. "Sir… High Imperator Kasala, we've failed this mission. They're dying down there! Please, give us leave to move toward the city, to help them evacuate before she tears it apart." Her breathing was ragged, every word a plea. "We can't just stand here while they burn."

Kasala's jaw tightened. He turned toward her voice, the storm whipping around his silhouette. "Yes," he said finally, calm and deliberate. "Go. Save as many as you can."

Lucy's relief came out as a trembling breath. "Can you coming with us, sir?" she asked, the question more hope than expectation.

Kasala shook his head once. "No. That is not our fight. We do not intervene in Princedom affairs unless their princes request it directly and that is not a price they would be willing to pay. Not in credits or honor."

Lucy didn't argue. Her tone steadied, resigned but determined. "Understood, sir. Thank you for letting us go. Someone has to try."

Kasala met her gaze through the storm, his voice carrying through the roar. "Then go. And may whatever gods still watch this world be with you."

"You heard him," Lucy ordered, her voice sharp again, filled with purpose. "Form up on me. All units, with me. We move now!"

The mechs came to life, engines humming faintly through the storm. Snow exploded around them as they turned toward the burning red horizon. Her Zev'lor charged forward massive and deliberate, followed by the rest of her squad. Their lights faded into the white, swallowed whole by the storm as they marched toward their dying city. The channel cut. Silence fell once again, cold and suffocating.

Kasala exhaled through his nose, his tone unreadable. "I suppose she chose to head to the city," he murmured. "It makes sense. Still… but how did she manage to get in?"

No one answered. The storm filled the space with its whisper. Kasala gave a dry, humorless laugh. "One of those mysteries, I guess. At least we can return to command. The mission fulfilled without the blood of a city on our hands."

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Vaeliyan said nothing. His stomach twisted, the guilt sharp enough to taste. He had driven her there. He had done this. And no one outside his inner circle would ever know. Not Kasala. Not Tetra-3R92. No one. He would carry that silence with him, buried beneath layers of snow and orders.

The squad began their slow march back toward the mining outpost that served as their command hub. The storm clawed at their armor, the sound of metal boots grinding against ice filling the empty air. Kasala walked at the head of the formation, his cloak snapping behind him, each step heavy with unspoken thoughts. He glanced toward Bastard, whose black scales were cracked and missing from the flight, his breathing came shallow and uneven.

"What happened to him?" Kasala asked, his tone calm but curious.

Vaeliyan didn't flinch. "He got caught in one of the demolitions," he said evenly. "Too eager when they brought the buildings down." The lie slid from his mouth easily, practiced and perfect.

Kasala gave a slow nod. He didn't press further. His mind was already miles away, on Graveholt, on the Red Widow, on the roaring death none of them dared to face. His thoughts turned cold as the wind. "At least," he said finally, "we didn't have to stain our hands to win."

By the time they reached the outpost, the storm had dulled to a slow fall of white. The metal walls of the command base shimmered beneath the frost, their dull lights flickering weakly. The snow came down in quiet sheets, thick but calm. It felt wrong, too peaceful after what they had heard.

Kasala turned to face his cadets, the storm swirling behind him. "The three of you have completed your task," he said, his voice carrying easily through the wind. "Even if you weren't directly involved, the mission was fulfilled under your watch." He paused, his tone softening slightly. "And with that, I offer my congratulations. The Legion recognizes you as High Imperators, a full High Imperator squad."

The words echoed through the cold. Lessa straightened instinctively. Roan adjusted his stance, unsure how to respond. Torman lowered his head, conflicted between pride and the unease of knowing the truth.

Kasala continued, steady and impassive. "That's no small thing. In my entire tenure, I've never seen a full squad rise together. You should be proud of yourselves."

They nodded quietly, though the words felt hollow. The storm whispered around them like a secret, tugging at their cloaks and armor. None of them spoke. None dared to say what they all knew, that their victory had been purchased in silence, bought by one man's lie and a city screaming beneath red snow. Vaeliyan stood among them, face unreadable, the weight of the blizzard pressing down until guilt and frost became one.

As they returned to the mining outpost, Vaeliyan and the cadets bid Theo's squad goodbye and good luck as they marched toward another front. Orders had come through mid-return, diverting them elsewhere before the storm had even cleared. The farewell was brief, heavy with exhaustion and silence. No one had the strength to speak much. The blizzard's remnants clung to their armor, swirling in soft spirals that caught the faint outpost lights. The snow hissed faintly beneath their boots, leaving behind thin trails of frost that seemed to stretch forever. The wind, though calmer now, carried the memory of the chaos that had swept through the valley.

Kasala walked ahead of them, his steps firm and measured. His cloak whipped in the freezing air, the edges already stiff with ice. He looked back occasionally, reading the faces of the group that followed, faces that carried fatigue, disbelief, and quiet dread. When he finally stopped and turned fully toward them, his voice broke through the low hum of the wind. "You all seem burdened," he said, his tone deliberate and heavy. "It's the first time I've seen a Shatterlight Trial break the hearts of cadets who didn't watch their comrades die. But I understand. You witnessed something horrific. It weighs on me as well."

They didn't answer. The storm around them had quieted, but the silence between them was worse. The air was so cold it muted sound, swallowing every breath. Vaeliyan's shadow trailed long behind him, stretched and thin under the dim outpost lights that flickered like dying embers. Each light ahead looked further away than it should have been, as though the storm still tried to pull them back into itself.

Kasala resumed walking, his tone steady, almost kind, though his words carried the weight of authority that demanded composure. "Still, you should be proud. You've done something remarkable. You've succeeded at what I've never seen accomplished before." He stopped again, letting his eyes rest on each of them in turn. "You are going to be High Imperators, a full squadron, each of you. That is no small thing, and it's not something that happens often." He clasped his hands behind his back as the outpost came fully into view, its metallic walls glinting faintly through the haze. "Whatever rewards you receive for this mission, I'm certain they'll match the weight of your achievement. High Commander Ruka will see to that."

The words hung in the cold, echoing faintly off the metal walkways that lined the entrance to the outpost. No one spoke. Xera's gaze stayed fixed on the ground, Rokhan shifted uncomfortably, and Torman's eyes had gone distant, staring at the horizon where red light still flickered faintly against the snow. The crunch of their boots filled the space between them in an uneven rhythm that mimicked their unsteady hearts. Kasala slowed, sensing the unease that clung to them like frost, and turned his head slightly. "Though Graveholt burns," he said, quieter now, "know this, it is not the Legion's fault. And it is not yours."

But his reassurance fell hollow. It slid off them and vanished into the white. The words didn't lift the weight from their shoulders; they only drove it deeper. None of them met his eyes as they continued walking, each lost in their own silence, their breath fogging the air like ghosts. They had survived, yes, but the knowledge of how burned heavier than the snow. Their boots dragged through the drifts, and the sound of their steps became an unspoken confession with every move forward.

Vaeliyan walked at the rear, his thoughts drifting in the cold. The world around him felt stretched thin, unreal, as though he were still inside the storm. He had saved them all, from the Red Widow, from the slaughter, but he had condemned the city to do it. He could still see the red light on the horizon when he closed his eyes, could still hear the laughter that had danced through the storm. It echoed faintly in his skull, mocking him in tones too sweet to hate. His chest ached with every breath. For whatever reason, Mondenkind, had told him to act, and he had obeyed. But now that obedience felt like betrayal. He didn't know what that meant anymore. He didn't know if he could trust himself, because Mondenkind was not something apart from him. Mondenkind was him, his very soul, the truest expression of what he was. The voice that had guided him was not another presence, it was his own will, his own essence, calling him toward something he could not understand.

The others trudged ahead of him, silent and slow, their armor gleaming faintly under the outpost lights. Lessa's bond, Momo, padded beside her, the massive creature's breath rising like steam into the air, its eyes flicking constantly toward the burning horizon. None of them spoke. None could. Their faces were drawn, their steps mechanical, as if movement itself was the only thing preventing collapse. The Legion had trained them to fight, to endure, to obey, but not to carry the weight of something like this.

Kasala, unaware of the truth buried behind their silence, continued walking toward the outpost gates. His stride was unwavering, his composure perfect. Only when he stopped at the threshold did he glance back once more. "You did well," he said, his voice gentler now. "The storm will pass. It always does."

The cadets didn't answer. His words fell into the snow, joining the rest of the buried dead. Vaeliyan's eyes lingered on the lights of the outpost ahead, then turned back to the horizon where red still bled faintly against the dark. Graveholt was burning. He could feel the heat even here, far away, through the storm's chill. It pulsed through the bond that tied his being, his soul, Mondenkind, to the world around him, a distant ache he couldn't silence.

He looked at the others, their bowed heads, their hollow stares, the exhaustion etched into every line of their faces. None of them would ever speak of this. They couldn't. The Legion would never know. Only Kasala was blameless in this, untouched by the truth. And so they walked on, step after step, carrying the weight of what they had done, each footfall sinking deeper into the dark snow. Their secret stayed buried beneath them, black and endless, like the storm that refused to die.

It hadn't taken them long to complete the mission. The storm had already begun to fade by the time they reached the outpost, and the reports had started to come in before they even crossed the perimeter. High Commander Ruka was still in a meeting, but Helen met them in her stead. Her uniform was immaculate, her composure practiced, though her eyes flicked briefly over their exhausted faces as if assessing the damage.

"We've received confirmation," Helen said, her tone measured. "The Red Widow is laying siege to Graveholt. For the record, we are considering this mission complete. High Commander Ruka sends her regards and will be in contact with you soon enough. You all did an exceptional job. We don't even have any footage of any of you in contact with the Widow. That is more than commendable. You did the mission perfectly. There isn't a single trace of Legion interference. For all we can tell, she naturally made her way to Graveholt on her own. So, kudos to you."

She paused, letting the silence stretch. Then her tone shifted, lower, sharper, carrying a finality that cut through the fatigue clinging to the air. "Understand something. This mission is off the record. Officially, it never happened. There will be no debrief, no record in the logs. You completed what you were sent to do, but this conversation, this moment, ends here. Do you understand me?"

Her gaze lingered on Vaeliyan before moving down the line of cadets, waiting for each to nod. They did, one by one, solemn and wordless. "Good," Helen said finally. "Then we will consider it finished." Her tone softened, though her eyes did not. "High Commander Ruka extends her appreciation. In the meantime, you are instructed to take full advantage of the facilities we have to offer. They're extensive, so rest, recover, and remember, what happened in the storm stays buried there."

The words fell like cold steel. None of the cadets felt relief. Success wasn't the word that came to mind. They had lived, but an entire city burned for it. Still, they nodded, automatic, mechanical, the weight of secrecy settling over them like frost.

Helen didn't linger. She turned sharply, gesturing for them to follow. The sound of boots against metal filled the corridor as she led them deeper into the outpost. The tunnels sloped downward, the air growing warmer with each step. Faint light bled through the narrow passageways, revealing the polished stone and reinforced plating that marked the entrance to the underground facilities hidden beneath the mine.

None of them spoke. The silence was suffocating but familiar. As they followed Helen deeper underground, the weight of the Red Widow's laughter still clung to them, carried faintly in the back of their minds like an echo that refused to fade.

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