"Kasala here. Push down. Mechs first, then Theo's Squad, cadets follow. Keep formation tight."

The storm was building as they came down off the ridge, a low wall of white pressing against the night. The horizon blurred to nothing, clouds shredding themselves into endless snow that hissed against metal and skin. Snow drove sideways in sheets, stinging against armor, crawling into the seams of the rigs until their surfaces were etched with frost. The air tasted of iron, dry and cold, like a blade on the tongue. Each breath came sharp, every sound swallowed by the wind before it could travel more than a few meters. The sky above was swollen and bruised, stars gone, the moon's light drowned in shifting veils of gray. Every step further down into the valley felt like stepping into a throat that was about to close.

"Zero-Four, approaching right flank. Rounding corner of third sector, sweeping left."

The descent tightened the column. The slope into the valley was steep, switchback paths buried under ice and drift. The mechs tore deep scars into the snow, treads grinding black streaks through white, their weight grinding stone beneath the ice. Boots cracked the frozen crust, the sound hollow and sharp, swallowed instantly by the gale. Above, the ridge was already fading into a smear of gray and storm, swallowed in seconds as if the world behind them had ceased to exist.

Wind screamed across the rooftops below, tiles rattling loose and sliding into the street. Doors banged open and shut against their hinges, clapping like hollow hands. Smoke from half-dead chimneys smeared into the blizzard and vanished into nothing, scents of burned peat and ash smothered until the air was flavorless. Drifts gathered in doorways, waist-deep in some alleys, curling like claws over rooflines ready to collapse.

"This is Ironclad. Clear. No contacts on visual."

Streetlamps guttered and died, smothered by the storm's chokehold. Shadows stretched and bent under the pale glow before they were erased completely. Shapes flickered at the edges of sight, the storm itself twisting into silhouettes that vanished when the optics focused. The rigs adjusted their sensors, flickers of static chasing across their domes as the environment strained technology to its edge.

"This is Spire. Sector entry clean. Holding formation."

Snow fell harder now, heavy and constant, muting every movement into dull crunches. The storm was not at full strength yet, but already its weight pressed down, thick and oppressive. Every step cracked through frozen crust into powder, boots sinking deep, rigs heaving forward as if dragging themselves through a sea. Icy wind howled between the narrow lanes of the village, dragging banners of snow into spirals that whipped against walls, rattling shutters that had long since broken off their hinges. Whole streets seemed to breathe, snow rolling in heavy sheets across stone before lifting again, blinding sightlines and choking sound.

"This is Breaker. I've got shadows ahead. Heat signatures. Looks like the villagers."

The village crouched below them, roofs sagging under snowpack, windows glowing weak yellow against the storm. Figures swayed in the streets, bodies hunched and twitching in broken rhythm. Some clapped their hands together in a grotesque rhythm, their palms shattered and bent at wrong angles, bones broken from endless repetition yet still striking together with wet, ruined sounds. Others spun in crooked circles, singing even as blood poured from their mouths and coughed out in steaming clouds. Their eyes ran red, bleeding freely, but still they sang, voices raw and breaking. Some bodies slumped mid-motion, emptied of all blood, their skin pale and hollow. These did not rise again, lying still as corpses with nothing left inside. Around them the others moved on, dragging only the living back upright, swaying in torment they could not end. Their shadows blurred together, movements synchronized by something unseen. The further they went, the more the noise of the storm was replaced by a faint rhythm, too chaotic to be music, too deliberate to be random.

"This is Zev'lor. I haven't seen anything yet. Keep grounded. Everybody make sure you watch every angle. She could come from anywhere." Lucy's voice cut through static, her knight towering over the others. "Breaker, put those poor bastards out of their misery. Less noise, less pain for them in the end. Move."

The mechs obeyed. Servos groaned, lances spat bright light, and four shadows went down, snow instantly drinking their heat. The rest of the column advanced. Ironclad smashed through a barricade of wagons iced into place, wood splintering under its mass. Spire swept its turret left and right, clearing the lanes with slow precision. Breaker followed, venting heat into the snow until steam rolled up and vanished, creating sudden pockets of fog that thickened the blizzard. Their advance became slower, deliberate, every corner turned into a narrow throat choked with white.

Theo's Squad moved in close behind them, lances tight, shoulders pressed as they cleared corners and forced survivors into the open. Their boots cut black trails through white; each step marked with a hiss as the storm rushed to cover it again. Their breath steamed against visors, lances flicking from shadow to shadow, tension humming across the comms even when voices were silent. The storm pressed against their visors, painting every surface with shifting frost, erasing faces until they were little more than silhouettes wrapped in gray.

The cadets fell in next, armor sealed, externals muted, comms alive and sharp. Inside their helmets the world was silent but for the rasp of their own breath and the clipped bursts of orders. Snow rattled against their plates in constant percussion, a dull roar rising and falling with each gust. Kasala walked with them, voice steady on channel, every instruction a hard line that anchored the squad against the gale, his words carrying weight enough to hold their nerves together. His presence cut through the storm as cleanly as the mechs did, a center point around which everything else aligned.

At the rear padded the bonds, Styll, Bastard, and Momo, keeping low, eyes glowing faint through the storm. They ranged close, restless, their movements flowing just outside formation, every step in rhythm with the advance. Snow coiled in their wake, erasing tracks almost as quickly as they were made. The village ahead was no longer just a scattering of houses; it was a shadowed hive, waiting, its narrow streets swallowing them one corner at a time. The storm swallowed sound, the walls leaned inward, and with every step forward it felt less like an approach and more like descent into a throat that would close behind them, trapping them inside. Roofs hunched under the weight of snow, eaves creaking like old bones. The deeper they pressed, the more the wind sounded like a voice straining to speak, never clear, always on the edge of breaking through.

The storm deepened as the advance cut further into the village, consuming the world in white. Wind screamed between houses, ripping shingles free and driving snow through shattered windows that bled light from the fires within. Each gust carried ice that struck armor like grit from a grinder. Mechs glided through the drifts, massive silhouettes that blurred in and out of white. They moved with eerie grace, their bulk cutting through the snow without sound, as if the storm itself swallowed every trace of their passage. The sight was unsettling, machines so vast they should have thundered, instead moving in total silence. Even their steps left no impression for more than a heartbeat before the wind devoured them.

Vaeliyan moved behind them, boots cracking through the crust, visor alive with ghostlight from the rigs ahead. The storm wasn't just noise anymore; it had rhythm, a steady pulse that matched the pounding of his own heart. It was alive, something vast and knowing, pressing close. Somewhere inside that rhythm, something else stirred. It wasn't direct, more like a pressure behind his ribs, a whisper too quiet to be sound. It tugged at him, soft as breath, familiar in the way a wound remembers pain. He knew she was close. Every instinct screamed that she was watching them, not with eyes but with intent, cold and patient. The storm's rhythm quickened, matching his breathing until he could no longer tell where his body ended and the wind began.

The snow thickened, blinding even the mech sensors. The squad's formation broke apart into ghost-lights scattered across the valley floor. Faint glows moved ahead, s sweeping arcs through the haze, heat signatures blinking in and out.

The first warning came across comms in a burst of panic. "She's on me! She's on me, get her off!" a mech pilot shouted, voice cracking with raw terror. The background filled with metal straining, a terrible bending groan, then a sound like steel tearing bone. The channel went raw. "She's breaking in!" The words ended in a scream as the cockpit dome split open, pressure seals blowing apart in a burst of red vapor. Wind howled through the breach, carrying the pilot's last exhale into the blizzard. A moment later, the feed went dead.

For a few seconds, no one breathed. Then the storm erupted.

Another mech went down, its torso folding inward like crushed foil. The next exploded without warning, a burst of light and steam swallowed instantly by snow. In the distance, silhouettes toppled one after another, metal groaning before splitting apart. The sound of rending steel rolled through the valley like thunder.

"She's everywhere!" someone screamed. "She's… oh gods… she's…" The transmission collapsed into static.

Through the chaos came her voice, soft, lilting, innocent.

"Oh! I like the big ones," Melody said brightly, her tone full of awe. "They go boom!"

The moment her words touched the open channel, the world fractured. Pilots screamed, their voices twisting into static and shrieks as the sound crawled into their minds. Kasala's voice broke mid-order, turning into a hoarse shout as he started humming under his breath, trying to drown her out. Others followed, humming, chanting, even screaming to fill the noise. Anything to keep the sound of her voice out of their heads.

Warren heard it too, but for him, it wasn't madness. Her words were simple, curious, almost kind. "Hellooo… did you want to come play with me?" she asked, gentle as a child meeting someone new.

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Another mech shattered in the distance, its pieces spinning away into the snow. Then another. And another. Six gone in moments, all silent now but for the storm's scream and the sound of humming rising over open comms.

The comms erupted. Kasala yelled orders. The cadets cursed and screamed. Voices roared and fractured into chaos. Somebody began humming through the channel, off-key and desperate, trying to drown her out. Others followed, humming or shouting anything just to fill the air. The noise layered until it became pain. The feed turned into a storm of human panic, a raw chorus of fear and broken minds. Vaeliyan could hear the difference now, the way they trembled, the way their minds broke under a voice that, to him, sounded like laughter and play. Whatever she was, she wasn't attacking him. Not like the others.

He didn't move. The voice reached him too, but it didn't burn. It didn't dig into his head. It was only a child-like voice, calm and curious, and he found himself listening without fear. Around him, men and women were breaking under it, bleeding from their ears, clawing at helmets, their bodies jerking like puppets on severed strings. He stood frozen, realizing that he was the only one untouched. The storm shifted as if holding its breath, waiting for his reaction. The mechs around him loomed motionless, silent as statues, their lights dimming one by one until only the faint ghost-glow of his visor remained.

Off in the distance, the mech that had lost its pilot went critical. Through the whiteout, Vaeliyan saw the red flash tear faintly across the snow, a ghost of light swallowed almost instantly by the storm, followed by a distant thunderclap that rolled through the valley. The flare painted the world crimson for half a breath before vanishing. Fire rolled through the drifts, turning snow to steam, then disappeared beneath the wind's roar. For a long heartbeat, the only sound was that dying echo, and then nothing. The comms became nothing but screams and static. It wasn't a battle net anymore; it was panic and prayer. The sky itself seemed to flicker with the dying light of the explosion, like a pulse fading out, swallowed by endless white.

Vaeliyan cut the link. The sudden silence left his head ringing. Only the storm remained, wind scraping metal, snow whispering across armor. And her voice. Still clear. Still bright. Not through comms. It was inside his head, not like the bonds to the others, but like calling to like. The link felt clean, effortless, natural, like an echo of his own soul answering from across the storm.

He drew a sharp breath. "Externals on," he ordered his AI, voice low.

The world slammed back. Wind roared. The storm screamed again, alive and endless. The silence shattered, but her voice remained, unbroken by distance or interference. It floated between the gusts, soft as music.

"Don't hide," she sang, light as bells. "Come play with me."

The words lingered, drifting through the snow like a lullaby. He could almost feel warmth radiating from them, as if the blizzard itself leaned close to listen. And for just a moment, he thought he could see her, small, barefoot, standing in the blizzard's heart, her hair whipping like fire. The snow swirled around her but never touched her, each flake turning to steam before it landed. She smiled, innocent and sweet, her eyes wide with simple curiosity. Then the storm swallowed her whole, and the world went still again, empty except for the whisper of her song fading into the white.

Vaeliyan pushed deeper into the storm, boots sinking into drifts that swallowed sound. The snow rose nearly to his knees, each step disappearing without a trace as if the world itself wanted to erase him. Wind clawed at his armor, dragging icy fingers across his visor, but he didn't slow. The village behind him was gone now, swallowed by the white. Ahead, faint ghost-light shimmered through the haze, mechs still struggling to maintain formation, their lights pulsing like dying stars. They moved without sound, heavy giants rendered spectral by the storm. Even their movements seemed hesitant, searching for commands that no longer came. It was as though the world had gone quiet except for the wind and his own breathing.

He felt her presence more clearly now, an echo inside his ribs, soft and insistent. It wasn't invasion. It was resonance, like a note drawn out from his own lungs. The pulse of it aligned with his heartbeat until he could no longer tell which belonged to whom. She was there, somewhere ahead, yet also somehow within him. Every breath felt like a conversation he didn't quite understand. He keyed his comm, voice low but steady, cutting through the static that filled the silence between gusts.

"Listen," he said quietly, knowing who could hear him. "This is Vaeliyan. Warren's coming out to play."

He paused, letting the words hang in the blizzard like a promise and a warning. "Try to keep everyone back. I'm going to drive her toward Graveholt. This storm is going to be mine… and she wants to play with me." The words came easier now, like he was repeating something already decided long before he spoke it.

Another breath. Snow swirled past his visor, a white curtain hiding everything but the faint shimmer of light that hinted at movement ahead. "Something is different," he continued, softer. "I can feel her in me. She's not taking me like she's taken all of you. Right now, I can hear her as she is, not as you do. She sounds real, not wrong. Something in me is echoing her."

He stopped for a moment, adjusting his stance as another gust nearly threw him off ba. The snow pressed against his armor, heavy and alive. "I think I need to do this. I think I can get her to go without anyone else dying. And Mondenkind wants me to do this. And if she thinks I should, then I need to." He inhaled slowly, tasting the metal of the air, the electric edge of coming violence. "Hopefully I can hold the storm long enough that no one knows what I'm doing. Just make sure nobody follows me. Make sure nobody questions if I'm missing. I'm leaving a copy that should hold my position long enough for me to get back."

He could picture their faces. If he could have heard their disagreement, their protest, he might have faltered. But he only called to them. They couldn't call back to him. The comm he'd keyed was sealed to their line alone, private and narrow, cutting every other voice from the world. Not Kasala. Not Theo's Squad. Not the Princedom mechs. No one but Class One could hear him giving these instructions.

The wind howled against him as he spoke his final words. "Be safe," he whispered. Then, more firmly: "Bastard, Styll, come. We're gonna go play with someone who needs it."

He didn't wait for confirmation. He knew they would follow, even if only for a moment. His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for himself. "I am the storm and the storm is me."

He turned from their ghost-lights and pressed forward into the heart of the white, deeper still. The wind rose to a scream, tearing across the frozen ruins and hurling shards of ice like broken glass. Somewhere ahead, the pressure in his chest deepened. Her presence pulsed stronger now, a heartbeat that matched his own. Each step brought him closer to her, closer to the point where the storm and his soul would meet. He didn't know what waited in that convergence, but he knew, with a certainty that silenced fear, that he would find her there, waiting for him.

Warren stepped forward where Vaeliyan once stood, into the storm. All around him, the wind coalesced, shifting as if recognizing him. The snow and ice moved in rhythm with his breath, bending to the shape of his will. For the first time, he understood, Rain Dancer wasn't just about rain. The storm in all its forms belonged to him. Snow, sleet, thunder, wind, even the stillness between them, it was all his. He was the storm, and the storm was him. The revelation wasn't triumphant. It was heavy. It was too intimate. The storm wasn't obeying him; it was acknowledging what he had always been.

Mondenkind, stirred within him, brushing against the edges of his thoughts, a whisper that wasn't sound but feeling. It wasn't command, it was trust. She urged him forward, not forcing him but guiding him, and his soul hummed with quiet certainty. He didn't understand why she wanted him to speak to the Widow, only that she did. To reach her. To help her, if he could. To make her move in a way that mattered. And if that meant driving her toward the city, toward Graveholt, then that was what he would do. The thought made his stomach twist. He knew exactly what would happen if she reached it. He could already imagine the screams, the collapse, the ruin. He would be releasing her into a living place, not to end her, but to redirect her wrath. It was not justice. It was strategy painted in blood.

It was a terrible thing. He knew it. He could feel the weight of it pressing against his chest. But the alternative was worse. The Legion was behind him. His people. The ones he loved. If it came down to them or the city, he would damn the city without hesitation, and in his heart, he already knew that he had. He saw it clearly now, Graveholt's towers burning, streets cracking beneath the Widow's song, civilians running and falling beneath her shadow. And still, he moved forward.

He tried to tell himself that it was still the right thing to do, that it was strategic, necessary, but he knew it wasn't. It was survival. It was selfish. It was monstrous. And yet, it was also the only choice that wouldn't cost him the faces he couldn't bear to lose. He wouldn't carry those deaths at all. He knew in his heart that he wouldn't. His monstrous nature understood that the innocents who would die were not his innocents. They were not his people. They would have stormed and destroyed his people if given the chance. And that was what tore at him most, the knowledge that he would not feel guilty for what he was about to do. He would carry no weight for the dead of Graveholt, and he hated that he could live with it. The thought made him sick, and yet beneath that sickness was something colder, a sense of purpose so sharp it almost felt pure.

The storm thickened around him, alive with his resolve. The wind whipped harder, carving streaks across the snow. The flakes no longer fell; they moved in spirals, following the slow beat of his heart. Styll bounded into the pocket of his yellow jacket, her silver fur glowing faintly against the cold. She pressed close, her warmth a fragile defiance against the frozen air. Bastard strode beside him, each step heavy and silent. The massive scaled cat shimmered with arcs of lightning beneath its black plates, the light chasing along his body like veins of molten gold. He looked less like a creature of flesh and more like a storm given shape, a prowling silhouette made of fury and patience.

Warren lifted his voice against the wind. "Melody! Where are you?" His words scattered into the blizzard, swallowed, then carried back by a softer wind that wasn't his.

For a long moment, there was only the roar of the storm. Then, faintly, a voice answered. "You… know my name?" It was soft, uncertain, and almost afraid. "But I've never met you before. This is our first time. How do you know my name?"

He smiled beneath his mask. "Your papa sent me."

"Papa Rupert sent you?" she asked, her tone brightening, almost eager, like sunlight through snow.

"Yes," Warren said, pointing toward the east, where he knew Graveholt waited buried in white. "He sent me to help you. We need to go that way."

The voice hesitated, thoughtful. "Why should I believe you? You're a stranger."

He took another slow step through the snow, keeping his tone calm and gentle. "Melody, how would I know your papa's name, and your daddy's name, if I wasn't sent by him? How would I know about Rupert and Calum?"

A pause followed, long enough for the storm itself to listen. Then her presence rippled through the blizzard like a pulse. "I… don't know. Maybe you're right." Her voice grew softer, almost playful. "Maybe we go play over there. Is it better over there?"

Warren nodded once, even though she couldn't see it. "Yes. Yes, it is. Now let's go."

He could feel her moving through the storm now, following him, curious and trusting. He told himself it was mercy, that he was keeping her from more blood that mattered to him, but every step toward Graveholt felt like betrayal. The snow twisted in his wake, reshaping itself into faint spirals that faded behind him. The storm was silent except for the low hum of his breathing and the soft whisper of her voice.

He walked for what felt like hours, guiding a monster toward a city that didn't yet know it was doomed. Every breath he took felt stolen. Every heartbeat felt earned. He whispered to himself, over and over, not as a prayer but as an anchor. "It's better this way," he said. "It's better this way."

The words sounded almost kind.

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