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Mother, Part 1... 4.

Mother, Part 1... 4.

  The depths of the Gzolthit Terminal loomed around Vashante, a labyrinth of rails and towering machinery that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light. She stood at the forefront of her force, her imposing figure framed by the ranks of Lady Bhaeryn’s black banner. Behind her, the biocrawlers chittered and groaned, their grotesque forms laden with supplies and weaponry, their countless limbs moving in disjointed precision. The air was heavy with the acrid tang of metal and the organic musk of the living constructs that filled the terminal. Yet, for all the sound and motion around her, Vashante’s focus was fixed entirely on the forces arrayed ahead.

  Across the expanse, the azure and sable banners of the Hash family swayed in the dim light. Their forces were a sea of bioceramic armour and steady ranks, but there was unease within their lines. Vashante’s dark eyes, set against the gleam of her mechanical half-face, swept across them with calculated intensity. Though neither side moved, the tension between them was palpable, a fragile equilibrium ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.

  It was the cries that reached her first—high, keening wails that rose from deep within the opposing ranks. They rippled outward, growing louder as they spread, a sound of fear and dread unmistakable. Vashante did not need to hear their words to understand their meaning. The soldiers of the Hash family were not afraid of Lady Bhaeryn’s warband nor of the monstrous biocrawlers. They feared her. They feared the name. They feared the Eidolon.

  Vashante rested her cybernetic hand on the hilt of her gleaming starmetal blade, sheathed at her hip.

  She stood as a living spectre of the tales that had haunted the minds of freaks and lords alike. Her presence was a reminder of the many who had come before her, those who bore the same title and left behind legacies of terror and brutality. Vashante herself was not without guilt when it came to such stories, her actions only deepening the shadows that stretched around her name. Now, as she stood at the head of the black banner, she could feel the weight of that reputation alone pressing against the minds of the opposing force.

  Not so long ago, it would have filled her with some small measure of pride.

  The posturing between the two armies grew heavier, punctuated only by the ceaseless stamping of the terminal’s machinery. Finally, the lines of the Hash family’s forces parted. From within their ranks emerged a figure unlike the armoured soldiers and hulking war machines that surrounded her.

  Flanked by a cadre of retinue figures, the matriarch of the Hash family stepped forward. Isbet Hash was a vision that most misbegotten freaks who had never glimpsed an ounce of true humanity would throw themselves onto their knees for, her form vaguely humanoid but distinctly otherworldly. The tremendous fluff around her shoulders and neck caught the dim light, its texture soft and delicate, like a mantle of impossibly fine fur. Her limbs were narrow and elongated, moving with a fluid grace that belied their seemingly fragile appearance. Above her head rose two delicate, tapering antennae, and her face—if it could be called such—was dominated by compound eyes that shimmered with an unsettling, multifaceted glow. Her exoskeleton was smooth and segmented, its surface a blend of metallic sheen and the organic strength of bone.

  Vashante’s readiness faltered, her body betraying an almost imperceptible hesitation. Isbet’s presence was like a blade drawn against her composure, cutting through the controlled facade she wore. Memories she had locked away threatened to surface, and for a brief moment, the Eidolon’s mechanical expression betrayed her.

  Isbet advanced slowly, and each step was measured and deliberated. Her retinue shadowed her closely, their movements almost ritualistic. Her very presence commanded a reverence beyond fear. The distance between the two women seemed both vast and intimate, a chasm filled with the weight of their shared history. Vashante’s hands twitched at her sides, a subconscious reaction to the conflicting instincts that warred within her.

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  She could feel the eyes of her own forces and the soldiers of the Hash family on her, the moment stretched thin with expectation. Yet, even as she stood at the head of the black banner, Vashante felt small under Isbet’s unyielding gaze. The last time they faced one another, Vashante committed an act she dared not name, an act that now seemed to reverberate in the silent exchange between them.

  Isbet stopped a few paces away, her antennae shifting faintly, attuned to the unspoken tension in the air. The compound eyes regarded Vashante with an almost unbearable stillness, their depths revealing nothing yet seeming to see everything. Her cadre halted behind her, silent and unmoving, shadows cast by a light that could not be seen.

  “Dame Vashante Tens,” Isbet’s voice came, soft yet resonant, carrying with it an unplaceable cadence that issued through the metal and bone of the terminal itself.

  “Lady Isbet Hash,” Vashante replied, her voice low and steady, though it carried an edge she could not entirely conceal.

  The Eidolon gave a bow, sweeping her black cloak.

  The matriarch inclined her head slightly, the motion slow and deliberate, her gaze never leaving Vashante. “I am here to meet your latest master.”

  The silence that fell between them was brittle, fragile as glass poised on the edge of a fall. Vashante’s mechanical half-face betrayed no emotion, but within, her thoughts churned in tumult. It was Isbet who broke the stillness, looking across the black banner of the forces arrayed before her.

  What Isbet had said—her tone almost flippant—the words landed with the weight of a blow. Vashante allowed no outward sign of offence across her features. Yet, the meaning was clear. The words were laced with subtext, a subtle barb that needed no further elaboration. Betrayal, loyalty broken and bought, a legacy tarnished; these truths hung unspoken between them.

  Before Vashante could summon a reply, a shift in the ranks at her flank drew both their attention. The forces of the black banner parted, moving with reverent discipline as Lady Bhaeryn’s biocrawler emerged from their midst. The massive construct trundled forward, its many legs moving with a grotesque elegance, each step a measured cadence against the hollow of the terminal’s floor.

  Surrounding the biocrawler was the darkly armoured cohort of Lady Bhaeryn’s Knights Consort, their presence a living testament to her newly risen influence. Jhedothar, his centaurian frame gleaming under the terminal’s ghostly light, held his ruby spear aloft, its surface seeming to pulse faintly with its own light. Beside him strode Toshtta Hew, her black maile overgrown by a lattice of twisting vines and thorns. Sar-ek walked with brash confidence, his massive sword already in hand, the blade catching the light as though it thirsted for battle. And at the rear, Cartaxa—stoic and detached—compound eyes watching the unfolding scene with the scrutiny of a seasoned veteran, his presence a weight as solid as the starmetal weapon secured at his hip.

  The biocrawler carried Lady Bhaeryn herself, now seated upon a throne that had been affixed to its prow. The throne’s blackened surface gleamed faintly with inlaid gold, its design both regal and ominous. Bee’s form, though dressed with the finery befitting her station, bore the unmistakable marks of her struggle. Her skin held a sickened pallour, and perspiration glistened on her brow, but her bearing—frail as it might appear—still carried the sacredness that her title demanded. The black gown she wore clung to her form, the golden trim accentuating her every movement, highlighting the holy femininity her followers revered. In this biomechanical realm, hers was the face of the divine, the embodiment of the human progenitors made manifest in this ruinous age.

  Vashante stood still, watching as the biocrawler halted before the assembled forces. She allowed her gaze to drift towards Isbet, curious to see how the matriarch would react to Bee’s arrival. For all her composure, Isbet was not immune to the weight of the moment.

  Vashante saw it, subtle but unmistakable—the faintest crack in Isbet’s carefully maintained facade. Her antennae shifted slightly, her compound eyes gleaming with an almost imperceptible flicker of unease. To most, it might have gone unnoticed, but Vashante knew her well and recognised the signs. Isbet was shaken. She had not expected this. She had not expected Bee. Not here. Not now. Not with a face so reminiscent of the ancient progenitors, a face that seemed to defy everything she knew about the history of this corrupted world.

  The moment passed quickly, Isbet’s composure snapping back into place like a well-rehearsed mask. Her segmented arms rested gracefully at her sides, her gaze once more inscrutable as she turned her attention back to Vashante. Yet the Eidolon had seen enough. That fleeting crack in Isbet’s demeanour was proof of the impact Bee’s presence had made.

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