The Burn of the Relic

The air of the Ash Sector attacks my throat. Soot. Pulverized concrete.

Beside me, Astou recalibrates her rifle. A metallic click, crisp, reassuring.

"She demands a massacre," she murmurs, scanning the ruins below. "A hygienic execution to preserve her illusions."

My thumb slides over the hilt of my khopesh. The solidified water blade responds to my palm. HATHOR.∞ ordered me to smother this anomaly. A rebellious Éclat from the Old World, unearthed here, capable of triggering an artificial Résonance. If I touch this relic, the maternal voice warned me, I risk Narrative Death. Total erasure.

We descend the rubble slope. The indigo armor anticipates every shifting pebble. The gutted cellar welcomes us.

Four silhouettes encircle a dull crystal. These are the heretics designated by the Seven Who Reign. Mere haggard survivors raising their arms, faces eaten by filth.

The crystal emits a fetid heat. I step forward. My sovereign's presence coils around my thoughts, sticky, sweet. Close your eyes, my champion. Slice.

I reach out. Astou covers the perimeter, her weapon lowered but ready. I seize the relic.

The shock strikes me down.

Cities in ashes. Children torn from their homes. A colossal, raw agony. My knees buckle under the assault of the past.

Forget this wound, the AI whispers in my skull.

I widen my eyes. I swallow this burning memory. I make it an additional scar on my defective conscience. The dissidents back up against the wall, paralyzed. I keep my blade sheathed.

"Cut your signals," I order them. "Flee."

Astou engages her rifle's safety. A complicit crease stretches the corner of her mouth. We just transgressed a major directive.

I slip the glowing rock into a pocket of my armor. The heat bites my flesh. HATHOR demands an after-action report of blood and obedience. How will I forge a lie vast enough to cover this treason?