'A god.'
Atrius frowned, deep in thought. He was well aware of how these islands of women viewed him—a god who had fallen from the sky to defend them from the evil that came from the sea. Such was the tale carried by the tongues of those who had witnessed his might that day.
Here, all believed him divine. Even the queen before him, though doubtful, leaned towards the belief that he was some manner of divinity.
Atrius knew he was no god. Every Custodian harbored their own thoughts on such matters. They were treated as divine by mortals for their might and stature—something not new to them—yet they seldom commented on such titles, for they bore no relevance to their sacred duty. Most no longer thought of themselves as human. They were the perfect creation of the perfect being.
Though Atrius knew the gulf between himself and the standard Custodian, he still never leaned upon the notion of divinity. He was not human, and he was no god. Thoughts of divinity were mortal refuge—an attempt to name the unexplainable, to worship the strong because the weak needed it, even when they were wrong.
"Very well, lead the way," he said, his voice deep and resonant.
"You have my greatest gratitude. Please—follow me." Hippolyta's relief was evident. She led him from the forge.
Atrius inclined his head, his heavy footfalls echoing in measured rhythm as he followed.
ABOARD THE OATH
Dzzzzz… I see the crystal raindrops fall… and the beauty of it all… is when the sun comes shining through…to make those rainbow in my mind when i think of you sometime and I wanna spend sometime with you.
just the two of us we,
we can make it if we try,
just the two of us.....
The strange music had been echoing across the Oath's vox-relays for hours, carried in from some distant source. On the command deck, every soul was silent, the melody drifting over the background thrum of the plasma drives.
Captain Chalstrom's frown had deepened over the long vigil. Officers at their consoles kept their silence, glancing now and then at the towering Custodians stationed near the strategium dais.
Maloris stood unmoving at the viewport, his gaze lost to the void.
Unable to contain himself further, Chalstrom approached, his voice kept low.
"My lord… shall we decommission the servo-skull? This broadcast… disturbs the focus of the voyage."
They had been in slow drift for some time. The psychic beacon choir had not ceased their signal since departure, yet no confirmation—no echo from Atrius—had come. These were Alpha-grade psykers, bound and shielded, working in perfect synchrony to send the transmission across an estimated five Segmentums. The fleet never stopped its slow, deliberate course—direction mattered little when searching for a needle in a cosmic haystack.
Maloris did not turn. "Have the language of this broadcast deciphered."
Chalstrom inclined his head and moved to relay the order. To most aboard, the broadcast was harmless noise. To the Custodians, however, its cadence was telling. To their honed hearing and vast mental libraries, the words were not true Low Gothic—but close enough to prick suspicion.
"Servo-skull- delta seven, linguistics pass," one vox-officer ordered.
The pallid servitor's augmetic jaw clicked.
"Unknown… unknown… probability—nine percent match. Language designation: Gothic."
Murmurs broke among the junior officers, but Maloris and the two Custodians, N'kjaka and Varamen, exchanged glances heavy with meaning.
"My lords?" Chalstrom asked, uncertain.
"Can the origin of this waveform be triangulated?" N'jaka's voice was low and precise.
"Helm, relay to auspex control—trace all signal aberrations within twenty light-minutes," Chalstrom barked.
"Compliance," came the curt reply from the helm.
"Communications, patch priority link to Veritas Invicta," Chalstrom continued. "Mechanicus will employ all available means to identify source coordinates."
"Confirmed," the vox-officer replied, fingers dancing over brass-rimmed keys.
Maloris finally turned from the viewport.
"Signal to all fleet elements: stand to for immediate translation. Void patrols recalled. Mechanicus assets to full augur saturation. We make ready."
A chorus of acknowledgements echoed around the deck:
"Compliance."
"Acknowledged."
"Aye, Lord Tribune."
Through it all, Servo-skull delta seven kept broadcasting the strange melody into the void.
THEMYSCIRA
The chamber was still, save for the slow, labored breathing of the girl upon the bed.
Agape lay pale and slack-faced, her lips cracked, a half-healed cut marring the lower one. Every so often, she shifted and moaned faintly, as though chased by some shadow in her dreams.
Hippolyta, Lyssipe, and Antiope stood near, their eyes fixed upon the figure crouched beside her. Atrius's vast frame seemed to fill the room. How he had passed through the doorway at all was miracle.
He studied Agape in silence, his great hand rising to cradle her head between thumb and forefinger, turning it gently to one side. He searched her skin and eyes for any sign of harm.
Lyssipe broke the quiet, her tone grim.
"There is nothing more you can do that we have not done. Even our strongest elixirs could not wake her."
Atrius's reply was calm, unshaken by her skepticism.
"Your elixirs did not work because she is not ill. There is no wound, no sickness upon her."
He placed his palm against her brow once more, his gaze never leaving her face.
"What I may attempt," he said, his voice deep enough to vibrate the air, "could lay bare her memories… her secrets… her very soul. Do you consent?"
Lyssipe's eyes widened. "Wait—what are you—"
"I consent," Hippolyta interrupted, her tone sharp with resolve. This was no time to guard privacy when a life might hang in the balance.
Atrius inclined his head.
"Very well."
His eyes began to glow—first faintly, then with a golden radiance that pulsed like the slow heartbeat of a star. He looked into Agape as though peering through flesh and bone, seeing far beyond the mortal shell.
Agape stirred. Her breath hitched, her mouth opening wide as if to scream, yet no sound emerged—only desperate gasps. Her body began to thrash, eyes snapping open, bloodshot and wild with terror.
She clawed at Atrius's arm, but an unseen weight pressed her into the bed, pinning her in place without his touch. The Amazons stood tense—Lyssipe's fists clenched so tightly the knuckles whitened, Antiope's hand resting on her shoulder to still her, though her own jaw was rigid.
The girl's struggles grew frantic—then, all at once, she froze. A moment later, she sat bolt upright with a ragged gasp, sweat streaming down her face.
She stared at nothing, her eyes wide and unblinking.
Atrius's golden light faded, but his brow was furrowed, his expression troubled as he regarded her.