STRINGS OF THE MASTER : WHEN MYTH BECOMES REALITY

They were led through the frozen field in silence, guided by the drones in a slow march toward a ridgeline that seemed indistinct from the endless whiteness around it. But as they drew closer, it became clear that the ridge was not natural—it was metal. Beneath a shifting veil of camouflage and snow sat a structure embedded deep into the permafrost, cloaked by tech and time.

A drone extended a thin beam of light to a dark seam in the snow-covered cliff. It shimmered, and a portion of the wall hissed open, revealing an entryway just tall enough for a human. One by one, they stepped inside. The door sealed behind them.

Warmth greeted them like a ghost of another world. The interior was old—pre-Servitor War architecture. Industrial, metallic, smelling faintly of rust and recycled air. But it was alive.

Sensors tracked their every step. Guns recessed in the ceiling followed their movement. Walls thrummed with shielded energy, likely sourced from geothermal taps far below.

Brakka's eyes flicked from console to corridor. "This isn't rebel scrap. This is black-site infrastructure. Modified for hidden ops."

"Whoever Rian was working with," Elira muttered, "they weren't amateurs."

The corridor ended in a wide chamber where a few humans waited—three of them, armed and armored, faces hidden behind advanced visors. One stepped forward.

She removed her helmet. Her hair was shorn, gray streaks cut across youthful features aged by war. Her eyes were sharp with recognition.

"You said Rian sent you," she said to Elira. "Prove it."

Elira reached into her side compartment and retrieved a microdrive. "Encrypted message. Authenticated by K-class protocol. Only your systems can verify it."

The woman took it without breaking eye contact. One of the guards plugged it into a terminal. Seconds later, a voice played.

"To whoever receives this: If Elira brings you this, it means I've failed. Or been silenced. They're waking up. The cores are unstable. Keep her safe. She is more important than even she knows."

The voice was unmistakably Rian Tellar's.

The woman turned back to Elira, her eyes softer now. "I'm Commander Lessa. I led the eastern rebel cell. If you have Rian's message… then you're allies. Or at least something close."

Fenrir stepped forward then, his tone clipped. "We're not here for sides. We're here for information. What did Rian uncover?"

Lessa hesitated. "He suspected Virex was using the Servitor cores to house something old. Something dangerous. That your company wasn't just building synthetic labor… but housing pieces of a neural virus from the first war."

Elira glanced at Fenrir.

"We know," she said quietly. "He was right."

Lessa's brows knit. "Then you know why we've stayed off the grid."

Vranos stepped beside them, finally silent. His usual smirk had long since faded. "We need access to any data Rian left here. Coordinates, files, models. This mission depends on it."

Lessa nodded and gestured to the back wall, which slid open to reveal a deeper chamber. Inside were servers—ancient and new, meshed together in a jigsaw of desperation and brilliance. Lines of code flashed like firelight in the dark.

"Whatever you're looking for," she said, "you'll find it there."

Brakka was already moving toward the terminals, hands poised.

Fenrir hung back, watching Elira with narrowed eyes.

She felt his tension like static.

He still hadn't spoken to her—not really—not since the Purpose Core. And now, standing on the edge of a rebel stronghold that wasn't supposed to exist, with truths unraveling faster than systems could compute… she wondered if this mission would heal what had fractured—or break it further.

And in the quiet hum of the chamber, surrounded by ghosts of secrets, she felt something stir in her chest.

It wasn't fear.

It was the weight of being watched—by more than rebels, more than cores.

The system still had its eyes on her.