Snow fell quiet across the ruin as Warren stepped through the old stones. He had circled wide, coming in from the back, weaving through a scatter of broken walls and toppled pillars where the outpost had been built over older bones. The outpost itself still stood mostly intact, its massacre fresh, bodies frozen into walls, drained hollow and bloodless, their twisted faces staring blankly from the ice. But here, beneath his boots, the cobbles were older than memory, iced over into a glassy sheet, each step crunching faintly against the hidden pattern of stone. The broken pillars leaned at jagged angles, frost locked into their cracks, shadows stretching long across the snow. His yellow jacket caught the snow's glare, stark against the pale world, and his umbrella rested lightly in his grip. He walked into sight as if he belonged more to the dead foundations than to the living world, a lone figure of color in a place that had forgotten life.

He stopped at the edge of the open ground. His breath plumed in the cold, sharp against the silence, each exhale a small ghost torn away by the wind. The wind hissed faintly through the broken stone, a whisper of past voices echoing in every ruined pillar. For a long heartbeat, the ruin seemed to hold its breath with him, every stone and wall leaning toward the sound of silence. And then he began to sing.

"The wind doth blow today, my love, And a few small drops of rain; I never had but one true-love, And in the cold grave she was lain."

The words were quiet, yet they carried. The sound lifted through the ruin, soft at first, then filling every crack and corner, threading through the cobbles and drifting like smoke into the line of white mechs watching from a distance. Each syllable seemed to ring too clear, too steady, as if the ruin itself was singing with him. The song wound around broken stone and frozen dead, pulling everything into its rhythm. The notes fell like snow, slow and relentless, settling into places that no living thing dared occupy.

A voice snapped over comms: "What the fuck is he singing about?" Another muttered, "Sounds like a grave song." The words made a few mechs shuffle their stance, uneasy, their frames tilting, optics narrowing on the lone figure.

"Movement, front left," a scout hissed. "Someone's out there."

Another voice overlapped, rough with disbelief. "I see him. He's… singing? Who the fuck sings at a time like this?"

"Run a thermal. He's unarmored," a third snapped. Static flickered before the reply came back, hesitant. "He should be frozen stiff already. But he's just standing there. Jacket, umbrella, nothing else."

"An umbrella?" A short laugh that died quickly. "This is fucked."

Warren's voice rose into the next verse, his head tilted back, voice threading into the frozen air:

"I'll do as much for my true-love As any young girl may; I'll sit and mourn all at his grave For twelve-month and a day."

The sound came steady, a song of devotion and loss, each line floating into the open and settling over the frozen corpses like a shroud. The mechs watched, their sensors flickering with uncertainty.

"Gods above," someone whispered, "he's singing a love song."

"No one sings that kind of thing in a warzone," another snapped back, voice cracking. "Is he mad?"

Their confusion thickened into tension. Warren's voice carved clarity through the silence. Each line sounded like it had been waiting centuries for someone to finally breathe it into the ruin.

A larger shadow peeled away from the line of white machines. The mech knight moved with ponderous certainty, servos whispering under armor. It stepped into the ruined courtyard, glass dome gleaming like a frozen eye. A turret arm rotated, optics sweeping the open ground until they locked on Warren. Snow shifted in its wake, plumes rising from its steps, each one crisp, deliberate, echoing too loud against the silence.

"Identify yourself," the pilot barked, voice flattened through the mech's speaker. "Cease singing and state your business. This is a restricted site. Do not approach."

Warren ignored him and sang on, his tone as steady as stone:

"The twelve-month and a day being up, The dead began to speak: 'Oh, who sits weeping on my grave, And will not let me sleep?'"

"Enough!" the pilot snapped, voice cracking with nerves. "Kid, shut the fuck up. Identify yourself now."

The mech knight's turret began to wind, arm whirring as it centered on the yellow jacket. The pilot's voice grew raw. "I don't want to fire on a child. Stand down or we will open fire."

Warren lifted his voice again, steady and unflinching:

"'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave, And will not let you sleep; For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips, And that is all I seek."

His voice rang against the mech's dome, echoing in the cockpit until the pilot gritted his teeth. The mech's optics flared brighter, its aim sharpening. "Say something real," the pilot muttered through comms. "Not this… gods damn nonsense. Who are you?"

The song answered him:

"You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips, But my breath smells earthy strong; If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips, Your time would not be long."

"Shut him up! Now!" another mech pilot snarled across the channel. Panic and irritation leaked through the voices. Servos shifted in readiness. Fingers twitched on triggers. The entire line of white-painted armor leaned forward, their weapons waking.

Then glass cracked. A thin fracture raced across the dome, hairline at first and then exploding outward. The pilot's head burst apart, blood and bone splattering the cockpit. The mech staggered, servos shrieking as it pitched forward, toppling into the cobbled ruin with a sound like thunder. The snow lit up with shards of glass and a spray of red that steamed against the frost, falling back down in flakes that looked no different than snow until they touched the ground.

Fenn stood at the edge of the ruins; Stinger Lance braced to his shoulder. His armor caught the snowlight, steady and precise, the barrel humming from the perfect shot. He lowered it with calm certainty as silence rang, steam curling faintly from the lance's muzzle. Around him, the cadets bristled, ready for the order to strike, their weapons shifting, their breath loud inside their helms.

"They took out the Captain," someone gasped.

"No way. Fucking hells."

"Simian is down. You gotta be fucking kidding me."

"Attack. Kill the fucking bastards."

The ruins answered instead. From shadow poured Tetra-3R92, Kasala, and the cadets, lances blazing as they swept across the flank. Snow erupted with steel and heat as the trap was sprung, every figure moving with intent and tight rhythm. Warren had been the lure, and now the jaws closed. The ambush hit the Princedom's line hard, confusion twisting their formation into desperate corrections. White-painted frames shifted and staggered as strikes bit into joints, optics, and plating; sparks skittered across the cobbles and armor dented under exact hits. The clash ripped open in sudden violence, each note of Warren's song running like a thread through the melee.

Kasala's presence was unmistakable. His commands moved through the bond like a current; the cadets answered with the sort of cohesion that had been drilled into them until it was instinct. Sixteen voices thought as one, their formation flowing around his like water, each cadet hitting the points he chose. The Princedom machines grunted and jittered under precision strikes, servos stung, optics blinded, hydraulics spat foam. But only one machine lay truly down, its systems wrecked and its pilot gone. One pilot abandoned turrets and lances, reaching instead for the heavy blade mounted on his mech's back. Torman's hand snapped out, threads of silk spooling across the joint. They cinched tight at the elbow, locking servos mid-motion and trapping the weapon half-drawn, useless in its sheath.

The last figure to emerge was Vaeliyan in full armor, black and gold stark against the snow. His helm turned toward the clone Warren's bright figure at the center of it all. For a heartbeat the ruin seemed to draw a colder breath, the song rising as though two voices had merged, one from the living and one fading. As the next verse left Warren's lips, the clone began to dissolve, its outline thinning into drifting snowlight until only the true Warren remained. For a moment it was as though he sang in duet with himself:

"'Tis down in yonder garden green, Love, where we used to walk; The finest flower that ever was seen Is withered to a stalk."

The cadence of the song pressed into the ears of every fighter present. The chorus of cadets struck in rhythm with his voice, steel meeting steel in the measure of a dirge. One cadet whispered across the bond, awe sharpening their tone, "He's still singing. Through all of this. Still singing." The whisper steadied those around them and drove their lances into gaps with renewed purpose.

"The stalk is withered dry, my love, So will our hearts decay; So make yourself content, my love, Till God calls you away."

Each line fell like an oath, boxed by the sounds of impact. Bastard lunged low, black-scaled frame slamming a mech's leg and ripping at exposed servos, grinding gears until the machine staggered. Momo moved alongside him with Titanic strength, forcing a seam in plating that let heat and oil hiss out; the cockpit's systems coughed and went dark, but the shell remained upright. Snow filled with fragments of dented plating and sparks, the shadows of combatants moving too quick to track.

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The cadets moved with the practiced brutality of trained killers, hammering at joints and sensory arrays to force the mechs back, not to drop them outright. The twins flared in tandem, their mirrored light refracting into a brutal glare that dazzled optics to white. Through the confusion, Sylen surged low, seized both legs of the staggering frame, and wrenched hard until the mech toppled face-first into the snow with a scream of metal.

Tetra-3R92 pushed through flanks, breaking the Princedom's pace and forcing pilots into defensive maneuvers. One of Theo's men dragged deep on his cigarette, exhaled, and the smoke hit the air as frost. Ice raced across a mech's ankles in jagged webs, locking its legs into place until the servos wailed against frozen stone. Sparks and snow swirled together, metal groaning, lances finding purchase and driving them back.

A mech's turret spun up, barrels whirring as it angled to rake Varnai's flank with a storm of flechettes. Jurpat broke forward and howled, the sound crashing like thunder; the storm bent in answer, and the flechettes veered back, shredding into stone and ice instead of Legion armor.

Warren's song braided through the clash, rendering the fight both ritual and war: each syllable marking the rhythm of assault, each phrase driving a push.

The ruin became a place of music threaded with damage and blood, every note settling into the snow and the dark streaks it left behind. Smoke curled low, broken glass and scattered fairing crunching underfoot. The Princedom's mechs fired in bursts now, attempts to regain rhythm; some strikes found unlucky targets, clipping armor or gouging sensors, but their discipline frayed. The song filled their ears and their channels, muddling orders until commanders spoke over one another.

Vaeliyan moved through the clash like a shadow in measured steps, black-and-gold armor cutting a calm line through the chaos. His moves were efficient and final; where his lance struck it opened systems to failure, not necessarily catastrophe. Around him, the cadets' bond flared harder, their unity sharpened by his presence. Where he pointed, pilots were forced to back out of exposed positions; where he held, the Princedom crews hesitated.

Warren's final notes trailed the ruin like a curse, steady and unyielding. His voice lingered in the snow even as the clone vanished, leaving only his true self standing, jacket bright against the grey. The echoes folded into the snow, his song threading through walls and the frozen faces in them. The enemy felt it as much as they heard it; their comms began to fray with disorientation and orders shouted twice.

Over the channels, voices cracked into panic. "They've breached the line. We're taking hits, regroup, pull back where you can!"

Another voice barked, edged with cold fear: "Keep formation, don't leave men behind. Watch your flanks."

A few units slid back on the ice to re-establish spacing, others dug in, firing to keep the cadets from closing. The hail of metal swallowed most of the noise, but Warren's voice refused to stop, threading itself through the ruin like a ghost that would not let go, each verse binding the Princedom pilots into a tighter tangle until their options thinned.

Snow thickened over the battlefield, muting the clash into a blur of white and shadow. The ambush had struck deep, but the Princedom's mechs were far from broken. Engines roared as they pulled back into a tighter line, weapons sweeping arcs of fire. The cadets pressed forward, lances flashing, but every step was contested by disciplined bursts that forced them into cover. Ice shattered under the weight of impacts, chips of frozen stone flying. The fight settled into a tense pause, each side drawing breath, the air carrying the faint metallic tang of burnt oil and blood.

Vaeliyan raised a gauntlet, halting the push. His voice never touched the comms, but his intent bled through the bond with sharp clarity: hold. The formation of cadets froze, every one of them bracing for what came next. Their breaths rasped in their helms, fogging against glass, the song still echoing faintly behind them. The weight of the moment pressed into their bones, demanding patience when every instinct wanted to charge. Fingers twitched on lance grips; shoulders ached from the tension of restraint. Snow caked armor joints, crusted over visors, the world narrowing to sightlines and the ragged breaths of comrades holding themselves still.

The Princedom regrouped with grim efficiency. White-painted mechs moved with uncanny coordination, their outlines sharp against the pale ground. They closed ranks around the fallen knight; their weapons leveled in a cold arc of steel. The hum of their systems carried like a steady drumbeat. Servos whined as they recalibrated, and through the drifting flakes the glint of reinforced glass flashed. A pilot's voice cut harsh and clear: "Whoever you are… you won't leave this place alive."

Vaeliyan stepped up beside Kasala, black-and-gold armor outlined against the pale. His presence was a dark tower amid the ruins, the bond steadying as his resolve flowed into his squad. Wait for the next opening. The order carried weight, soothing the cadets' desperation to strike. One by one, their grips tightened on their lances, eyes locked on the white shapes ahead. Even their fear sharpened into discipline beneath his command.

Kasala's voice cut across the field, cold and plain: "If you want to leave this place alive, surrender." His words were not shouted but carried with such iron weight that they seemed to settle into the stone itself.

There was an instant, furious reply from the Princedom line. "We will never surrender to you, you green zone bastards. You killed our fucking leader. We could do a lot worse than die here." Their machines shifted forward a step, armor gleaming pale, weapons angling toward the cadets. Their fury was sharp, almost frantic, but their discipline held them in place. Every mech became a statue bristling with weapons, rage vibrating in their frames.

Kasala laughed, an ugly sound that settled like frost on the pilots' nerves. "Do you think any of you can stop me? I am High Imperator Darun Kasala, and none of you would be able to stand before me, let alone the forces I command." His words hung like a blade, daring them to deny it.

A stunned murmur rolled through their channel. "Fuck, they got a High Imperator," someone hissed. "You bastards, we were supposed to work together, and then you attacked us." Voices overlapped in static confusion, anger and disbelief tangling until no one seemed certain who led the line anymore. The mechs shuffled, some lifting weapons higher, some wavering as if a single order could shatter them.

Kasala let the laugh sweep the comment away. "Tell me you would not have done the same if you were in our shoes. Tell me you were not going to strike the moment we walked into your line." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as though he were speaking truth that everyone already knew. His words dragged the weight of inevitability, stripping excuses before they could be spoken.

He leaned forward, armor glinting, voice flat and even. "We were the ones to spring the trap. But if it had been the other way around, you would have been just as glad to get rid of me." His words silenced their channel for a heartbeat.

At last, a pilot's voice came back, shaky but resolute: "You will not kill us?" The question hung raw, carrying more fear than defiance, a plea hiding under the thin shell of resolve. The machines shifted uneasily, steps crunching in the snow, optics glowing like eyes searching for mercy.

Kasala's answer was steady, carrying through every channel, every bond, every ruined wall. "As long as you obey my orders," he said, "you will stand a chance of making it out of this alive." His voice was a final stone placed in the foundation of silence. For a long moment, no one moved, cadets waiting, mechs trembling, the air filled only with the quiet crunch of shifting weight.

The surrender began slowly. A female pilot eased open her cockpit and climbed down, boots crunching against stone. One by one, the rest of the unit followed, cockpits yawning open as their machines powered down, heavy frames going still. The cadets stepped forward alongside Tetra-3R92, lances held steady, with High Imperator Kasala at their center.

Kasala's helm turned to the woman who had stepped out first. "Who is your leader now that the knight is dead?"

"That would be me, sir," she spat, not in hate, but with disgust at the burden of command falling to her. She squared her shoulders. "Will you let me take control of the knight? Zev'lor will serve well, and it will give us a better chance at surviving what comes next."

Kasala studied her. "Ah, yes. Are you trained to use such a machine?"

"I was being trained," she admitted. "At least I know how to get it up and running. The weapon systems I have access to are fairly powerful. Even if I don't know every system yet, it would be better than staying in my prancer. And that way we can at least go in and bury Simian. He deserves to rest. We'll probably just strap the prancer to the back, maybe take the shell and replace the glass you shattered."

"Fair enough," Kasala said.

"Sir," Vaeliyan asked, "why would we let her use the knight? Wouldn't that make her too dangerous?"

"Good question," Kasala replied. "You can answer that, can't you? I did not catch your name."

"It's Lucy," she said. Her eyes flicked to Vaeliyan. "All right, kid. The knight is a little less dangerous than you think. I only have training access. I do not have full control, so I can't run all of its systems. It's still a beast. It's stronger than my prancer, yes, but without full unlocks it's barely more powerful than a warrior. With me at the controls, your leader here would still be able to take me out easily."

Vaeliyan tilted his head. "That is an interesting set of information."

"Yes," Lucy replied. "It's not a secret. So… what's the plan, Mr. Darun?"

Kasala's tone sharpened. "It is High Imperator Kasala."

"Well then, what's the plan, High Imperator Kasala?" Lucy sniffed, arms crossed.

Kasala let the question hang, then asked his own. "What would have been your plan if you had sprung your trap successfully?"

Lucy hesitated before answering. "We would have used you to drive the Red Widow into the wilds as the vanguard."

Kasala's voice was dry. "There you go."

Her eyes widened. "I thought you said you weren't going to kill us."

"I only promised that I would not kill you," Kasala replied. "Death is still on the table for all of us. You are the ones who will decide if you survive. I will not be the one to spill your blood."

"Well… fuck," Lucy muttered.

Kasala's helm tilted. "Do you know where the Widow's tracks lead?"

"Yes," she answered. "Looks like she's heading north, toward a small village about four hours away. If she didn't turn back toward your lines, that's the closest settlement she'd hit. Maybe we can catch her if you all ride the backs of these mechs. Maybe we can get to her before she causes more mayhem."

"Yes," Kasala said simply. "Let us hope."

Vaeliyan shifted, unease prickling along his skin. He could feel something faint, a draw in the direction Lucy had pointed. He wasn't sure if it was real or just his imagination, but the pull lingered.

The world narrowed elsewhere. Melody played with her new friends, laughter spilling out into the night like music. They capered around her, their motions erratic and clumsy, but she found them amusing enough for now. When one stumbled, she steadied him with a delighted push, her mirth rising as he struggled back to his feet. The night belonged to her, the broken stones and ruined trees echoing with shrieks and laughter that sounded both childlike and terrible.

Then she felt it: a tug, faint but undeniable, pulling from the south. It was not the shallow excitement of these playmates, nor the brittle pleasures she wrung from them. This was something deeper. Something stronger. She hadn't felt it in a long time. A true call, the kind of thread that only bound her to equals. A real playmate was coming. From the south. She straightened, her eyes flashing, every line of her body alive with anticipation.

How exciting.

Her companions did not notice the shift in her mood. They danced still, circling her with wild energy, laughing with voices that already belonged more to echoes than to people. Melody only half-watched them now, her head tilted, listening to the pull in the distance. The south called to her, promised her something worth the wait. A partner who could last. Someone who could sing with her.

She smiled, lips stretching until her teeth glinted in the light. The sight silenced the nearest of her friends for a moment before he laughed again. She ignored him, her mind already far away. She would wait. There was still fun to be had with these friends, still games to play, still dances to dance. Her new friend would come soon enough.

And when the moment arrived, when the southern tug drew close enough, she would leave them without regret. Because then she would be able to dance and play with someone far more fun, someone who could match her steps, answer her laughter. The thought thrilled her, and her laughter rose again, bright and happy, a promise to the world itself.

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