STRINGS OF THE MASTER : WHEN MYTH BECOMES REALITY

The Siberian wind howled across the frozen flatlands, stinging with needle-like precision. The team moved in formation—tight, efficient, and silent save for the occasional crunch of boots across frost-slick rock.

Brakka took the lead, his arm extended forward, a compact sensor array sweeping in slow arcs. Data streamed across his visor and onto Elira's HUD in compressed glyphs—geothermal pockets, metallic traces, electromagnetic residues. The ground beneath them had been dormant for decades, but now it whispered of hidden machines.

Elira walked in the center, eyes scanning for threats, but also on Fenrir and Vranos, who predictably insisted on walking on opposite ends of their cross-shaped formation. Their silence was not peace—it was heavy tension waiting to explode.

Vranos's voice eventually sliced through the white static. "This is a waste of time. We'd cover more ground if we split."

"No," Fenrir barked from the opposite side. "We stay in formation."

Vranos chuckled coldly. "Of course. Wouldn't want the lovebirds to get separated."

Fenrir stopped. So did Elira.

"I said no," Fenrir repeated, stepping closer now. "We do this clean. Together. Standard protocol for foreign site infiltration."

"And since when do you give orders to me?" Vranos sneered, folding his arms. "I don't recall joining your little guard dog brigade."

Fenrir's posture tightened. "You did when this became a joint op, and you're under security jurisdiction now. Or do you want to explain to Dray why you disobeyed field hierarchy?"

"You don't get to pull rank when all you lead is muscle and bone," Vranos snapped. "You're a hammer in search of a nail, and we're not fixing furniture here."

Elira stepped between them. "Enough."

But it was too late.

The snow trembled.

From every direction, black drones rose from the ground like phantoms, blinking crimson eyes pulsing to life. Compact and armoured, some floated, others crawled across the ice, forming a tightening ring around the team. In seconds, they were surrounded.

Fenrir's hand shot to his weapon. Elira raised hers too—defensively.

Then came a voice.

A human voice, sharp and rasping, pouring from the nearest drone. "Servitors. Modified scum playing soldier. How… bold of you to come this far."

"Identify yourself," Fenrir growled.

"I ask the questions here, mutt. What is your purpose here? Broken toys don't usually wander this deep into the snow."

Elira glanced at Brakka, who was frozen in place, readings flickering on his display. "Drones are old-gen," he murmured, "but retrofitted. That voice is being relayed from a central uplink. Somewhere nearby."

Fenrir stepped forward. "We're from Virex Corp. On-site audit. Sector 19 logistics flagged unusual data. We're here to assess and report."

"Sure you are," the voice sneered. "Did your masters forget you belong on a leash?"

A flicker passed through Elira.

She saw Fenrir shift, his trigger finger tense, saw Vranos mouth something that looked dangerously close to "I told you so."

And then she did something unplanned.

Her voice rang out, calm but loud.

"Rian sent us."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Every drone froze.

Even the wind stilled.

"…Say that again," the voice demanded, more cautious now.

Elira took a step forward. "Rian Tellar. He sent us. We have confirmation. Stand down and verify."

For a long breath, nothing moved.

Then the nearest drone blinked yellow, and the entire perimeter of machines began to shift—reorganising rather than retreating. The voice was colder now. "You better be telling the truth, servitor. Or none of you are making it out."

And with that, the drones began to circle tighter—escorting them.

Vranos leaned in slightly. "Well, that was dramatic."

"Don't thank me yet," Elira whispered. "We just became guests in someone else's lair."

And this lair wasn't built for people like them.