His heart pounding, Runne recounted the story for a second time. The trek, the birds, the hum, the glowing cave, the half-birthed, squealing monster. The pilot confirmed the visual on the green light. Diaval listened, his expression a mask of cold neutrality, until Runne mentioned the voice.
"The voice," Diaval said, taking a step forward, his focus absolute. "The one you heard inside your mind. Tell me its exact words."
Runne swallowed, the memory making his skin crawl. "It... it was fragmented. It said... 'key... has found... the lock... must... open...'"
A flicker of something—not emotion, but intense, predatory calculation passed through Diaval's eyes. He looked away from Runne, his gaze sweeping over the tactical map as if seeing a whole new set of possibilities laid out before him. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.
Then, Diaval turned to the lieutenant who had escorted them.
"Take the pilot for his official testimony. See that he is… comfortable. And confined to quarters until further notice." He then turned to two imposing guards standing near the door. "You two. Take Private Veyne to the officer's wing. Get him out of that uniform. I want him showered, fed, and in a Class-A dress uniform within the hour."
Runne stared, the order so bizarre it didn't compute. 'A dress uniform? What the hell is he talking about?'
Before he could protest, Diaval's cold eyes met his again. "Your life as a foot soldier is over, Private. You're a part of something much bigger now." His gaze shifted to a point just over Runne's shoulder, a silent dismissal. "We have a great deal of work to do."
The two guards prodded Runne forward, their silence more intimidating than any order. They led him away from the command centre and into a part of the base he'd never seen before, the officer's wing. The corridors here were not bare concrete but panelled with dark, polished wood. The air didn't stink of stale sweat and disinfectant; it was clean, sterile, and quiet. It felt less like a military base and more like a high-class prison.
They stopped at a door, opening it and nudging him inside before closing it behind him, their footsteps receding down the hall. The room was a private officer's quarters, ten times the size of his own cube. It had a real bed with a thick duvet, a polished desk, and an attached, private washroom.
And laid out on the bed, impossibly neat, was a uniform.
Runne stared at it, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing. The fabric was jet-black, so dark it seemed to drink the light. The shoulders were adorned with heavy, intricate gold epaulettes, and a crimson-lined cape was folded neatly beside it. On the chest, a single, blazing star had been embroidered in brilliant silver thread.
'What is this?' he thought, a sense of deep, profound absurdity washing over him. 'A costume? A joke?'
He felt a surge of anger, a desperate desire to refuse, to throw it on the floor. But Diaval's final words echoed in his ears. You're a part of something much bigger now. He was a piece on a board, and he didn't have the luxury of refusing a move. With numb, clumsy fingers, he stripped off his own worn, familiar grey uniform and pulled on the costume.
The fabric was heavy, the gold thread of the embroidery itching and biting into his skin. He looked at his reflection in a full-length mirror by the door. He was tall, with the lean, hard-earned muscle from a decade of relentless training, but the uniform was a lie. It swallowed him, turning him into a parody of a leader, a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
The door to the quarters burst open, slamming against the wall.
Martha stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, her pale blue eyes blazing with a fury that made Runne take an involuntary step back.
"You idiot," she snarled, her voice a low, dangerous growl. She stalked into the room, her gaze fixed on the uniform. "You reckless, stubborn, little idiot. Do you have any idea what this is?"
"I didn't have a choice, Martha," Runne said, his voice defensive. "Diaval ordered it."
"Of course he ordered it!" she shot back, her voice cracking with fear, an emotion he rarely heard from her. "He's not promoting you, Runne. He's putting a target on your back… he's not making you a hero; he's making you a damn sacrifice!"
"A sacrifice for what?"
"For politics! For morale! For whatever damn game he's playing!" She stepped closer, her face inches from his. "He's turning you into a symbol. A pretty little story to distract people from the fact that a live Rift just tore open on our doorstep. And when a symbol is no longer useful, it gets thrown away. Or worse, it gets martyred."
The raw terror in her voice finally broke through his confusion. He wasn't being punished. He wasn't being rewarded. He was being used.
"What was I supposed to do?" he asked, his own voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Lie? Say I didn't see it?"
Martha's fiery expression crumbled, just for a second, revealing the bone-deep weariness beneath. She looked at him, truly looked at him, not as a soldier, but as the scared, orphaned boy she had taken under her wing ten years ago.
She sighed, a ragged sound of defeat, and took a step back. "No," she said quietly. "You were supposed to survive. That's all I ever wanted."
She looked him up and down one last time, her gaze lingering on the blazing star on his chest. Her own fury seemed to return, but this time it was colder, harder, forged into a kind of grim resolve.
"Fine," she said, her voice firm as steel. "If you're going to be his symbol, then you'd better learn to survive it. Don't you dare die on me, Veyne."
She turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind her.
Runne stood alone in the silent, opulent room, his reflection a stranger in a general's uniform. The weight of the cape now resting on his shoulders felt heavier than the entire world.