Apostate's Blade Mark

Caiatl measures the distance to Torobatl not in light-years but in lives, not in star systems but in the ships that would need to be shored up, the legions re-conditioned to the pitch depths of space. It is not a matter of "if" it can be done, but rather "when." How long to wait for Human allies, piling rubble up into fortifications; how long to stamp out the dregs of exiled Legions in Sol. "Here." Valus Forge has brought her a set of records from the Vanguard. They unfold in sequences of recorded violence—blurry, difficult to parse chitin from armor—and a scrolling list of numbers, a death toll that spikes precipitously. "No one likes to speak of it. But the intel's valuable. The Great Disaster." "When the Vanguard sought to retake Luna from the Hive." Caiatl knows the story of it, if not the visceral truth. Has heard it murmured, rumors passed from one to another. "But Crota is dead. As is Oryx. And Xivu Arath is severed from her throne world…" "Even a Lightless Guardian is still a threat." Valus Forge does not name names. He does not have to. Caiatl is well familiar with Osiris, with Eris Morn who brought the Hive gods under her heel. Xivu Arath has no refuge, yet it does not mean she is dulled. As any with but one life, they will fight to the death, with all that they have and more. Caiatl nods with grave intention. She reviews the records. She changes her variables. And she does the math again.