Four days.
For four days, Runne had been a ghost in a gilded cage. His new residence was an apartment in the upper spires of Paradisia's command sector, a place of silent, climate-controlled perfection. The windows were massive, but they showed only simulated, hyper-realistic views of landscapes he'd never see. The food synthesiser produced nutrient-rich grey paste that tasted of nothing. He had everything he needed to survive and nothing that made him feel alive.
He spent most of the time watching the world he had broken.
On a massive holographic screen that took up one entire wall, the news feeds churned, a constant storm with him at its eye.
"...the 'Veyne Proclamation' has completely destabilised the General Assembly," a sharp-featured political analyst from the Northern Dominion was saying. "The military now has a public mandate that bypasses traditional oversight. It's a dangerous precedent."
The view switched to a different broadcast, this one more sensational. "But can he do it?" a celebrity journalist asked, her face alight with excitement. "That's the question on everyone's lips! The 'Miracle Boy' who survived the Terminal Massacre now vows to tame the Advent Rift itself!"
The screen split, showing viral clips from across the continent. He saw children in the slums of the Southern Dominion wearing makeshift capes, holding up sticks and yelling his words:
"I'll clear the rift myself!" He saw conspiracy forums filled with grainy analysis of his posture, claiming he was a deep-state actor. He saw fervent supporters holding vigils outside the Assembly Hall, their faces filled with a desperate, terrifying hope.
'Miracle Boy,' Runne thought, pushing the grey food paste around his bowl with a spoon. 'They gave me a new name to go with the new uniform.'
He was a headline. A meme. A political crisis. A prayer. He was everything to everyone, except himself. He hadn't spoken to Martha since that day. He hadn't spoken to anyone except the silent guards who brought his meals. He was the most famous person in the world, and he had never felt more alone.
A soft chime echoed through the apartment, and the main door slid open. Runne didn't even flinch, his eyes still glued to the screen where a politician was now calling his vow "an act of noble, patriotic sacrifice."
He didn't need to look. He could feel the sudden, oppressive weight in the room.
Diaval Blackwood had arrived.
The holographic news, with pundits debating the "Veyne Proclamation," continued to play in the background, providing an ironic soundtrack as Diaval Blackwood stepped fully into the room. The door did not close behind him.
"You've had a busy few days, Private," Diaval said, his voice as cool and sterile as the room itself. He stepped aside, revealing the figure who had been standing behind him in the corridor.
The man who entered had to duck his head to get through the standard-sized doorway. He was massive, his frame so broad it seemed to suck the air from the room and make the opulent quarters feel suddenly small and cramped. He wore a pristine white officer's greatcoat, its collar matching the immaculate white except for a few faint, brownish-red splatters that could only be old blood. Beneath the coat, an armoured vest was visible, its dark, metallic buttons embossed with the military's eagle-and-sword insignia. His black tie was perfectly knotted but unnaturally stiff, catching the light with a dull sheen that suggested it was made of sharpened, plated metal.
His face was a roadmap of violence. Livid, keloid burn scars framed both sides of his head, disappearing into his slicked-back grey hair. Simple, tarnished rings were pierced through both of his earlobes. He smiled, a wide, predatory grin on his heavily scarred face.
Strapped to his back in a complex harness of leather and carbon-fibre was a sheathed sword so large it looked more like a sharpened slab of iron than a blade. His arms, from the shoulder down, were intricate, horrifying constructs of dull, black metal and exposed wiring, scarred and pitted from use. They moved with the faint, ominous hum of powerful servos and the soft hiss of pneumatics.
"Commander Blackwood," the giant said, his voice a disarmingly light, almost cheerful tenor that was utterly at odds with his terrifying appearance. He turned his gaze to Runne, his smile widening. "You've found us such an interesting little toy." He let out a soft, wheezing chuckle that sounded like grinding stones. "Far too interesting to be left to regional command, I think."
Diaval's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
The Grand Marshal, for it could be no one else took a step closer to Runne, his mechanical hands flexing at his sides, the sound of their inner workings a soft, menacing ticking noise. "A public vow. So much passion! So much... drama." He chuckled again. "The people love it. Which makes you both a valuable asset and a significant liability."
He turned his back on Runne, addressing Diaval as if Runne wasn't there. "Due to the unprecedented political sensitivity of Operation: Advent Star, the boy's oversight is being transferred from your command to my own, effective immediately. Is that understood, Commander?"
"Crystal," Diaval said, his voice clipped.
"Excellent," the Grand Marshal chirped. "We can't have our new little hero running into a Rift without his lessons, can we? No, no, that would be a waste of a perfectly good story." He turned back to Runne. "Your practical combat training will be overseen by Sergeant Miller, but your education on the true nature of the threat you have so bravely sworn to face begins immediately. Dr. Aris Vance is waiting for you in the lower briefing room. Do not keep him waiting."
The Grand Marshal then turned to leave, placing a heavy mechanical hand on Diaval's shoulder. As they walked towards the door, he leaned in, tapping Diaval's shoulder repeatedly as he whispered something Runne couldn't hear. Runne watched as Diaval gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. Just before the door slid shut, he heard the Grand Marshal's soft, wheezing chuckle one last time.
The door sealed, leaving Runne alone in the sudden, heavy silence. He replayed the scene in his mind, the giant's smile, the casual dismissal of Diaval. And then he saw it, a detail he had almost missed. As the Grand Marshal had leaned in to whisper, Runne had caught a glimpse of Diaval's profile. For a fraction of a second, under the harsh, perfect light of the corridor, he had seen a single, tiny bead of sweat trace a path down Diaval Blackwood's temple.
The unshakable Commander Blackwood was afraid. And that was more terrifying than anything else that had happened all day.
Before he could process the thought further, the aide in the tailored suit, who had been waiting silently by the door, gestured down the corridor. "This way, Private."