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Lore
Renunciation
"We are a new calendar! We are an age of beginnings! Each of us is a day!" —Skolas, Kell of Kells
Alarms bleat calamity-shrill across the Ketch as it churns through the void. The hull lows a shuddering complaint that Ziriks feels in his carapace.
"Tell me again," he commands. Shock slows his speech.
His Dregs wring their hands, sensing his weakness.
"Skriviks speaks of betrayal!" Viik cries. "He calls for reinforcements!"
"Cybele is a death-snare," hisses Riikas. "Four Paladins close on Skolas, and every Wolfship with him."
Every Wolfship, she means, including their own, should they remain on course to join the battle. Already they were delayed by much-needed repairs; a few volleys from the enemy fleet and their hull will split like ripe fruit.
Ziriks feels the stare of the Pilot Servitor beating down upon him. He is—they all are—sworn to his Kell, and Skolas is the last. Irxis, slain in the Eos Clash. Parixas, served up to the enemy through trickery. And these but pale shadows of great Virixas, slain by the alien Queen's Harbingers in the first decisive blow of the war.
Now Skolas stands alone, and the Wolf-Kell has stumbled into a trap. How could the Awoken have known of his intentions for Cybele?
More betrayal. More jostling for meagre power. Years upon years of Wolf-greed and desperation.
Ziriks signals for the Pilot Servitor to slow the engines.
"Broadcast an open signal to all enemy ships," Ziriks says. "We place our fates at the mercy of tomorrow."
