Noah awoke just as easily as he had been put to sleep, the slight sting of a needle wound suggesting that that might have been the work of yet another chemical. “They sure use those drugs freely…” He mumbled to himself, allowing the Wychhunters to guide him to his feet and line him up before the carrier’s single loading ramp, which opened with the hiss of preheated hydraulics.

  An industrial cacophony rushed to meet him, carried through an air that was surprisingly lacking in substance. It was thin and carried hardly any smell, as if it came straight from the processing plants instead of having been filtered a hundred thousand times like it should be. Most notable was the sea of bright, hellish white light which now flooded the craft’s poorly lit interior from outside, forcing Noah to shield his eyes with an arm. Before the ramp had even moved down far enough to hit the ground, the Wychhunters marched off in a stride Noah could only describe as hurried, leaving him behind. The dull clanging of their armored boots against the metal floor of the personnel carrier was swiftly replaced by the hollow thumping of those same boots on concrete bitumen, then faded off into the distance, melding into the incoherent rumble ahead.

  Noah had just enough time to wonder if the soldiers had forgotten about him before the armored gauntlet of their officer clamped around his shoulder from behind and shoved him forwards, just gently enough that he didn’t topple right over.

  Noah stumbled onto the landing pad and slowly shuffled forwards, lowering his arm as his pupils gradually contracted. He wiped the brightness-induced tears away to see, jerking up as he saw the place he had been brought to.

  Another push from behind encouraged him none too subtly to start moving, so he did. He walked in a straight line forwards, assuming that the Wychhunter would be there to guide him in whichever direction he was supposed to go.

  The enormous plaza he found himself in was bustling with activity; he counted hundreds -if not thousands- of the warskin-wearing soldiers, supported by a few dozen warriors clad in the same kind of armor his captor wore. They marched around in columns six abreast and several dozen deep, surrounding larger war machines bristling with guns, their gunmetal armored plates glinting in the light that seemed to come from everywhere, to the point that none of them casted a shadow. He looked up with a squint, tracing the source of the light to an array of huge beam lamps similar to those used in the city’s underground farms, which spread heat and light alike.

  Noah counted ten such groups at first glance, but as his eyes adjusted further to the blinding light and his vision was gradually restored, he noted that whatever place he had been brought to was far larger than he had initially imagined; The landing pad he walked upon was but one of hundreds, and one of the smaller ones at that. Nearly all said pads were occupied by aerial craft of all sizes and shapes. Noah saw a lot of craft identical to the one he had arrived in. These seemed to be the runts of the litter. Larger were sleek and deadly-looking craft Noah assumed to be gunships. The name seemed apt enough, seeing as how these craft carried numerous fat, multi-barreled cannons under their chins and wings.

  Far overshadowing both types of ships were gargantuan, box-shaped troop transports Noah estimated to be nearing two hundred meters in length, the thrusters of which alone were several times larger than the small carriers crowding the pads around these behemoths. Most streams of soldiers were directed onto these huge shuttles, marching into their extended landing ramps. The cockpits of these ships were positioned at the front, looming over those soldiers entering their bays.

  Before he knew it, Noah’s fantasy ran amok with that sight and spiced it up a little, transforming the ship into a monster of immense proportions with its jaw unhinged, glaring maliciously as hundreds of its hapless prey stumbled right into its waiting maw.

  He managed to tear his eyes away from the disturbing daydream and instead turned to where the soldiers were all coming from: A spindly tower dominating the tower of the plaza, reaching up all the way to the next city level, nearly three hundred meters above.

  The tower seemed to be the only noteworthy building on the plaza, so Noah decided to head in that direction. He wasn’t corrected.

  Where the plaza itself was constructed from boring and plain steel just as nearly every other building Noah knew from the subterranean city, the tower stood in stark contrast to this, its outer walls being constructed of a pearly material which looked at first glance to be pure marble. Criss-crossing the pristine white surface were lines of obsidian and pillars of copper, which together represented the three colors of the Sindrionite sigil, the same sigil that flew on huge banners in front of and on the tower: Three circles aligned in a triangle, connected by waving lines of energy. Though Noah had heard the depiction was only an approximation -and not scientifically accurate- the sigil was still clearly recognizable as a neutron. The very particle the Sindrionite star consisted of.

  These sigils were akin to the flags of the ancient nation-states that sprouted on the world of Origin, where the seeded Runora first awoke. Every system had one, ranging from the intricate and the ornate to the simple and the symbolic. As the only neutron-star system with significant Runora settlements, it only made sense for the Sindrionite sigil to show that crucial particle which defined its worth. Scared as he was, the sigil instilled some kind of hope and pride in the young boy. It reassured him that these brave men and women in front of him were ultimately of the same species, hailing from the same star system. On the other hand, here he was. A captive of his equals, still left in the dark about the fate that awaited him.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Rumbled a voice from behind him. Noah didn’t have to turn around to know who had spoken. The Wychhunter had never strayed far from his side. The boy recognized some hints of pride in the armored warrior’s voice as well, where the soldier had seemed professionally emotionless in everything he did before.

  “Yeah.” He admitted, his eyes roaming back to the massed lines of infantry marching their way onto the transport craft. Their movements were so synchronous that they had seemed machinal from a distance, especially combined with the glinting metal of their armor. A cold and unfeeling warmachine operating with ruthless efficiency.

  Noah had since gotten close enough to discern individual movements from the soldiers in one such column, and noticed that the Wychhunters gave off an air of excitement. Their stride was energetic, their weapons held only loosely. He saw their helmets turn towards one another as friends spoke with eager yet hushed voices, fearing the discipline of their officers patrolling the ranks. The raw energy surrounding the soldiers was palpable, and reminded Noah of the few class excursions his school had organized. There were no tense movements, nothing to betray the fear these men and women might have had. Even without seeing their faces, Noah realized that these weren’t soldiers marching towards war: These were soldiers heading towards assured victory. One of the soldiers- their gender impossible to discern through their warskin- turned to him and energetically tapped the number they and their comrades had emblazoned on their shoulder guards; 182. A number Noah had noticed on his captors and their ship as well, echoed a thousand times on nearly every individual and piece of equipment he could see. The Wychhunter’s legion number, he assumed.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He briefly wondered how many soldiers here were involved with the cult. Not all of them, probably not most of them. The soldier just now probably had no idea he was their captive. Perhaps they had assumed him to be a guest, the son of some officer who had permitted him to watch the mobilization from up close.

  He followed the soldier with his eyes for a while, but before long their shiny silhouette had merged with the group, becoming one with the mass.

  A screaming roar rose from behind him as one of the enormous troop transports ignited its engines and lifted off from the landing pad with all the speed and grace of a flying brick, washing a significant portion of the plaza in its thick exhaust fumes. The thin, cold air of the plaza suddenly reeked overwhelmingly of the craft’s benzene fuel and grew a fair few grades hotter to the point of being uncomfortable, even though Noah stood at least a quarter of a kilometer away from the departing ship.

  He coughed a few times and stopped to watch the craft leave, which the Wychhunter allowed, much to his surprise. The craft slowly turned around its axis and accelerated to the shimmering atmospheric containment field which spanned all the way across the plaza’s edge, containing the entire structure like a sort of incandescent soap bubble. The field hummed angrily as the vessel pushed its way through, kissing the transport’s outline in bright flares of cyan and violet as it fought to restore its full integrity. Once the ship passed, the field closed without leaving a gap, becoming nearly perfectly transparent again. Only the minute trembling of its surface and the soft light that emanated from the field emitters indicated that it was there at all.

  Once it was well and truly clear of the plaza, the troop carrier banked to the right and headed straight for the enormous opaque wall which also formed the backdrop of the plaza itself. The wall seemed to stretch on endlessly, following a nearly imperceptible inward curve. A great number of twisting pipelines, gantries, and buildings of various sizes and functions covered the skin of the wall, nearly fully obscuring it. Had it not been for the staggering, continuous uniformity of the wall Noah might have assumed it to be one of the many huge structures contained within Svartheim. No, even the largest constructions always gave off the hint that there was more city behind it. This wall was different, it seemed so final, so abrupt. The edge of the world given shape and form.

  There was some familiar aspect about it which gnawed at Noah’s memories, something he had seen a thousand times before, but he just couldn’t place his finger on what exactly that might be.

  His musings were put on hold as the craft flew ever closer to the seemingly impassable wall, heading straight for a round clearance in the otherwise crowded surface.

  A multitude of various imposing gun turrets set around the edge of what Noah now realized was a huge gate tracked its approach, but relaxed when the four segments of the gate folded inwards, creating an opening more than large enough for even the behemoth troop transport to enter.

  Noah gasped, his eyes widening even as his throat tightened with fear. Beyond the thirty-meter thick armor of the wall shone a faint yet baleful orange glow, a glow that only grew stronger as the thick, murky dust which carried it was whipped through the hole in the wall by flesh-rending equatorial winds, becoming illuminated by the city lights instead of the weak, barely-visible sunlight outside.

  It was a glow that promised freedom and death in equal measure. A glow foreign to Svartheims bowels, though it dominated the planet’s surface. Noah knew now why the air at the plaza was so sterile, why the beam lights shone on everything to keep it warm, why there was a huge, curving wall. That wall was the city’s skin, the outer shell that protected it from attack and environment alike. Only that protection was now pierced, and what approached Noah promised no freedom, merely death.

  Hardwired survival instincts obligated Noah to hermetically seal his workskin, but his hands found only empty air where the suit should be. He realized with a shock that it had been left behind at the Cradle’s hideout, and that there was nothing to protect him from his world’s killer atmosphere.

  Nothing but the atmospheric field, of course. The lethal mixture of airborne rust, sulfur, and carbon snow stopped harmlessly at the shimmering energy field. The ship had passed through and disappeared into the clouds by now. With the gates again closed, the supply of dust fell still. What remained advanced in all directions, creeping over the containment field in search of an entrance until it was too spread out to be harmful anymore.

  Noah’s heart pounded in his throat. In his life, he had seen one person die after inhaling the tiniest puff of unfiltered outside air. That was one too many for him to ever trust a device as esoteric as an energy field with his safety.

  He tried to speak, but his throat had become dry as old leather, and only sounds he could produce were whining squeals. He forced himself to calm down, swallowing a few times despite how dry his mouth was.

  “I w-would like to go ins-side now.” He stammered eventually, craving the tangible protection of steel and thermoglass like never before.

  The inside of the tower stood in stark contrast to its outside. No fancy materials or lavish decorations were used in its interior, and the air smelt actually smelt of something. The warm and textured flavors of quality foodstuffs hung in the air, originating from mess halls and kitchens the size of warehouses, where thousands of soldiers in full armor worked down a symbolic meal before heading into battle. Who the Wychunters were preparing to fight, Noah still wasn’t sure of.

  He only caught glimpses of the soldiers' meals through windows and a few opened doors, but that was enough for Noah’s body to demand the same sustenance. He was hungry, despite the fact that he had already wolfed down two full meals since Rosa took him. .

  He told none of this to his captor, who led him onto an elevator without inquiry even after Noah’s stomach loudly voiced its desire to be filled.

  It didn’t take long for them to reach an elevator, which promptly ascended after the Wychhunter typed in a code on the wall panel. The soldier’s warskin was intimidating in any environment, Noah did not much like being alone with him in an area so confined as an elevator.

  When the doors opened, Noah was quick to step out. He found himself in a waiting room of sorts, and it was significantly more comfortable than anything he had seen within the tower. Smooth, reddish laminate covered the floor and the half-dozen chairs placed in the room seemed large and soft enough for Noah to sink away in. The air had a fruity scent, something like lemon, as if the room were freshly cleaned. It certainly looked pristine enough for that to be the case. The wall opposite from him was completely made out of glass, offering a view of the plaza below. The walls on either side of the elevator housed display cases containing various suits of armor with different colors and sigils. None of them Sindrionite, Noah noted.