Ashwalker

Silence clung to the tunnel like fog.

No one moved at first—not Theta-9, not Halen, not even the preacher's guards. The three women sat calmly against the stone, backs to the wall, robes torn and stained, their eyes distant, unfocused. But what struck the team deepest—what froze the blood in their veins—was the stillness in their bodies.

Not fear. Not pain.

Peace.

"Viora scan active," Re'mber said quietly, lifting her forearm scanner. The pulse flickered once, twice—then stopped. "No weapons. No power signatures. Just… life signs."

Kaiell stood stiff, unable to look away.

All three of the women were heavily pregnant. Each belly swollen with perfect symmetry. And each bore the same inverted Rift spiral etched onto the base of her throat—burned in like a brand.

Conzro took a half-step forward, his voice low. "You seeing this, HQ?"

There was a beat of static.

Then:[Theta-9, this is Commandant Veyra. You're ordered to extract. Return to Carold Base immediately. Do not engage further.]

Halen frowned. "You're going to leave them alive?"

[Affirmative. Bring them in. Quarantine wing.]

"No." The preacher's voice was low, tight. "Don't bring them into anything. They've been marked. The Void doesn't let go easily."

But the order was given.

Kaiell stepped back as med-drones floated down from the carrier above, each one guided by a handler drone already deploying stabilizers. The women didn't resist. Didn't speak. Didn't blink.

They let themselves be carried.

Even as they were loaded into containment caskets and wheeled toward the ship, they never looked at anyone.

Except the one in the middle.

She looked at Kaiell.

And smiled.

The transport back was heavy with silence.

Kaiell sat strapped in, helmet on the floor by his boots, staring at the containment crate across the bay. The women were sealed inside—alive, unconscious now, vital signs pulsing on the casket's display.

He hadn't said a word since departure. No one had.

Even Conzro had fallen into quiet tension, eyes scanning the feed for anything out of place.

Kaiell's thoughts swirled.

Why?

What could the cult possibly want with them?

They weren't soldiers. They weren't infected. They weren't even dead.

They were vessels.

The word came to him unbidden, like something whispered between his ears. Vessels.

But for what?

The preacher sat across from him, hands clasped, unmoving. Almost meditating.

Kaiell broke the silence, his voice low and hoarse.

"Why would Void cultists care about children?"

Halen opened his eyes.

"They don't," he said.

Kaiell stared. "What?"

"They care about birth. They care about what's coming."

The preacher leaned forward, voice barely audible over the drone of the engines.

"You think the Void wants soldiers? Worshippers? No. It wants continuity. Incarnation. There are things too large to cross the threshold of our world. Not unless they're born into it."

Kaiell's blood chilled.

"So they're… growing something?"

Halen didn't answer.

He just stared at the crate.

And whispered:

"Or someone."

Carold Base grew on the horizon—its shield shimmered like a dome of light over the cratered mountain range. The transport descended swiftly, silent save for the humming of the engines and the tension in every soldier's chest.

As the ship touched down and the clamps unlocked, Kaiell stood slowly, gripping Nightfell's hilt without drawing it.

The dread hadn't left him.

It had only changed shape.

He looked one last time at the crate being unloaded.

The Rift spiral glowed faintly on the woman's throat—like it was waiting for something.

Watching.

Breathing.