Magnus
Tiberius’ Encampment – Some Time Later
The
war table hums. A cold blue light washes over Magnus Tiberius’
scarred face as he stands alone in the mobile command sanctum, hands
braced against the holotable’s edge. The room sways gently with the
wind battering the metal hull from outside, but Magnus doesn’t
waver. His eyes, glowing blue, sleepless, relentless, scan the
shifting holographic map.
Every
unit. Every squad. Every life under his command. All of it pulses
beneath his fingertips.
The
Venators’ battle, far to the northwest, nearly two hundred miles,
flares like a red wound on the map. Dozens of markers flicker as
units clash, rotate, fall back, surge forward again. The eldiravan
icons swirl like a stormfront around them, singing their war-songs
Magnus can almost feel, even through silent projection.
Sixty
miles south of that, the Venator encampment glows a steady amber. A
hornet’s nest, shaken but not yet ruptured.
Magnus
zooms in with a gesture. Three blue markers move in tight proximity
on a sheer mountainside.
SPARTAN
– RHO VOSS – SAMAYEL
Alive.
Mobile. Undetected.
Good.
Nearby
blink the three smaller green signatures of the Federalists:
RED
BARON – ARTURO – LIAM
huddled
close like sparks protected by larger flames.
Magnus
exhales slowly through his nose. Relief? Not quite. Relief is a
luxury he fed to the war long ago. But he notes their survival, and
that is enough.
To
the east, multiple flashing zones mark engagements with the Eldiravan
vanguard. Fire-teams advance, retreat, reposition, adapt. Every
minute yields dead on both sides.
Beyond
that frontline, three lone markers sweep through the terrain like
knives:
NABURIEL
– ASHURDAN – BELQARTIS
Running
constant scouting sweeps, updating terrain mapping, identifying
Eldiravan chokepoints, weaknesses, supply trails. Their efficiency
shows. The eastern battlefield has begun to shift, not toward
victory, but toward equilibrium.
For
now, that is the closest thing to a miracle.
Magnus
reaches for the console, enlarging the heat map of casualties. The
patterns are improving. His soldiers are improving. He sees it in
their formations, tighter than before. He sees it in their
engagements, more controlled, less reckless. He sees it in the way
they counter Eldiravan songcasting now, despite having no song of
their own.
They
are learning. Every death has taught them something. Every fallen
Invictan has sharpened the ones who survive.
Magnus
straightens, folding his hands behind his back. His armor plates
shift softly with the motion. His gaze stays locked on the shimmering
map, on the threads of battle weaving across the continent.
There
is hope. Small, fragile, faint as the last coal in a dying furnace.
But hope nonetheless.
If
they hold the line…
If
the Praevectus continue to grow…
If
humanity can survive its own fractures long enough to rise together…
They
can win this planet back.
And
Magnus Tiberius knows as surely as he knows the weight of every
soldier’s life in his ledger, if
Nirna
can be reclaimed, then so can the galaxy.
One
war at a time. One battlefield at a time. One hard, merciless victory
at a time.
Then
Spartan’s voice comes in over his radio, “Master, do you copy?”
A
flicker of Magnus’ eyes opens his microphone implant, “I copy you
loud and clear, Spartan.”
“Master,”
she reports, breath steady, “Venators
and eldiravan are still tearing into each other. Looks like the
Venators finally learned something, either that or the ravens
got sloppy. Hard to tell. Absjorn’s forces are hurting, though.
Priest Thaneus is leading this battalion.”
Magnus
narrows his eyes, adjusting the northwest projection. Thaneus. A
zealot, but a competent one. Dangerous in a different way from
Absjorn.
His
voice comes low, gravel-lined. “And
Absjorn himself?”
A
brief crackle. Then Spartan again, curt and certain, “Negative.
No sign of him. Samayel says Absjorn and Benedan were at the
encampment when the Inquisitor’s body was discovered. They haven’t
moved since. If you want, we can send Samayel back, see what the
clergy are plotting.”
Magnus
doesn’t hesitate. “Do
it. Keep eyes on Absjorn. If he starts moving, I want to know before
he takes his second step.”
“Understood.”
Static
hums. Then Spartan’s tone shifts, lighter, but edged.
“Master…
any more sightings of that black eldiravan? The one on my trail.”
Magnus’
fingers still over the controls.
He
forces the maps eastward, enlarging a cluster of white heat
signatures, cold spots among the wreckage. Naburiel’s last report
scrolls across the side panel.
Another
patrol, butchered. Bodies twisted. Armor carved open with precision.
No footprints. No tracks. Just the kill.
He
answers. “Naburiel’s
team found another Eldiravan patrol torn apart by a lone assailant.
Same patterns. Same brutality.” He
pauses, not for dramatic effect, but because he hates the next words.
“We cannot confirm
it’s the one hunting you. But it fits.”
A
long silence presses through the comm line.
Spartan
breaks it first, dry, wry, unflinchingly fearless. “…Figures.”
But
beneath the joke he hears the tension.
He
hears the calculation.
He
hears the readiness for a fight she knows she might not win.
Magnus’
jaw tightens. “Stay
sharp, Spartan. That thing is not a common soldier. If it engages
you, call for extraction. I don’t want you fighting it alone.”
A
quiet chuckle answers him. “Master…
it might not give me a choice.”
The
line goes dead.
Magnus
stares at her fading marker on the map.
A
storm is forming on multiple fronts. And one shadow is hunting his
best warrior.
He
straightens, expression carved from iron. If the black eldiravan
wants Spartan, then Magnus will be ready for it.
“Master…
permission to hunt the black one. If I track its—”
Magnus
exhales through his nose, already forming the answer, firm,
unyielding, absolute.
“No.
You will not—” But he never finishes.
Spartan
never finishes.
The
universe finishes for both of them.
A
voice bursts through Spartan’s armor mic, distant, muffled,
frantic: “LOOK OUT!”
Arturo’s voice.
Magnus
doesn’t even hear the breath before Spartan’s roar tears through
the implant, loud enough to rattle his teeth: “DOWN!”
Then
the world detonates.
A
deafening crack. A warping screech of compressed audio. The pop of
the radio overloading. And then a rushing, monstrous sound like the
entire mountain inhaled.
Static.
White noise. The cold.
Magnus
leans in, voice sharp and authoritative, “Spartan.
Report. Spartan, status. Now.”
Nothing.
The
feed jitters, black bars slicing across the screen.
Her
voice returns in fragments, battered and breathless:
“…weren’t…
aiming at us…” Another distortion, she’s
shouting again, voice strained, panicked, “—RHO!”
Magnus’
fingers fly across the war-table. Spartan’s visor feed blooms open
on the holoscreen just in time for him to watch hell swallow them.
A
wave of white collapses beneath her feet, snow, ice, crushing force.
The horizon tilts violently. The view tumbles, spinning, collapsing.
Spartan drops fifty feet down a sheer slope, her armor screaming
alarms, the audio a violent blur of scraping metal, shattering ice,
and her own ragged breathing.
But
she never stops looking. She never stops fighting. She spots her
trajectory, sees the rocks they’re heading toward, sees the bodies
tumbling with her. Arturo is ahead of her, sliding uncontrollably.
She
lunges through the chaos, armored fingers locking around the back of
his suit. She drags him toward her, anchoring him.
She
reaches for Liam. Her gauntlet stretches. The snow roars louder. Liam
is just out of range.
Just...Too...Far….
The
feed shakes violently as the avalanche hurls all three into another
drop.
Magnus
stands frozen, jaw tight, eyes burning into the holoscreen. It is all
he can do not to scream her name.
Spartan’s
Position – Continuous
Spartan
blinks through the cold snow on her visor, chest heaving beneath her
armor, gloved fingers tightening around Arturo’s arm to steady him.
She exhales a gust of white mist and mutters under her breath,
cursing the damned radio, every time she reaches out to Magnus,
calamity follows. The thought makes her smirk, bitter, despite the
ache in her muscles.
Arturo
shakes off the snow, brushing icy flakes from his shoulders,
murmuring a quiet, embarrassed thanks. Spartan merely grunts, letting
him right himself. Liam groans next to them, pain etched into every
movement, half-buried in the drifts. He scrambles to his feet,
brushing snow from his hair and clothes, eyes scanning the
surrounding peaks.
And
then, Spartan sees them.
The
grey dapple of massive hooves against the snow. The glint of polished
armor and banners snapping in the wind. The unmistakable figure of
Priest Thaneus, sitting high on his titansteed, calm, collected, yet
radiating authority. He holds his staff loosely in one hand, the
golden cross atop it catching the dim sunlight, glinting like
judgment itself. Around him, his battalion forms a rigid semicircle,
Lieutenants and Venators in perfect order, cavalry units fanning
outward, sealing Spartan’s flank, cutting off escape.
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Spartan
rises to a crouch, visor fogged with breath, and tilts her head back
slightly to meet Thaneus’ gaze. He leans forward, removing his
helmet with a slow, deliberate motion, placing it carefully in his
lap. His expression is one of cold pride, almost a predator surveying
a wounded pack.
“Ah,”
he begins, voice smooth, measured, dangerous. “The Vardengard comes
to us at last. And with her pets, no less.” He gestures casually to
Arturo and Liam, the sound of his staff scraping the snow punctuating
his words. “How… entertaining.”
Spartan
says nothing. She tilts her visor to narrow her eyes, scanning the
battalion around him, noting formations, distances, and potential
weaknesses, her body tense, every muscle coiled.
Thaneus’
gaze sweeps over her, assessing, weighing. “I could end this now,”
he continues, voice low and deliberate, “and yet I find… mercy
more compelling.” He taps his staff against his boot, snow
scattering. “You stand here, armored, proud, and yet trapped,
caught by my kindness, by the mercy of your enemies. Tell me,
Spartan, how does it feel to be at the mercy of a Priest?”
The
wind howls, carrying the cries of battle from below, yet around this
small plateau, the world seems to shrink, focused entirely on the two
of them. Spartan exhales slowly, the snow crunching beneath her
boots, her fingers brushing her weapon instinctively, knowing that
mercy here is merely a prelude to judgment.
Arturo
and Liam stiffen behind her, instinctively forming a small shield
around her. But Spartan shifts slightly, just enough for her presence
to loom larger than theirs.
Spartan’s
visor angles up, the cold wind hissing across the faceplate. Her body
relaxes, not in surrender, but in coiled challenge. Her voice lowers
to something colder than the mountain air, something carved from iron
and violence. “Mercy?” she echoes. “Cassiel thought the same
once.” A beat. “I tore his head off.”
The
words drop like a blade. Thaneus stiffens, only slightly, but it’s
enough. The edges of his calm crack, disbelief and insult warring
behind his eyes. Cassiel? Dead? And by her hand? Absurd.
Impossible. An affront to everything he believes a Priest to be.
But
before he can decide whether to laugh or smite her, the ridge above
them erupts.
Two
Olympian suits drop from the cliff in a thunder of snow and metal,
slamming into the ground with bone-rattling force. Snow explodes
outward in a blinding wave. The landing shakes the frozen earth.
Samayel lands first, Red Baron curled protectively in one arm; he
releases the young man the instant they steady. Rho Voss hits a
heartbeat later, his armor’s mass cracking the ice beneath his
boots.
The
Venator battalion recoils in two neat steps, weapons raised. The
titansteed rears and shrieks.
Spartan
doesn’t flinch.
Thaneus
keeps his composure better than his men, but his eyes narrow. He had
not expected reinforcements this quickly.
He
finally gathers enough disbelief to scoff, an indignant exhale, the
beginnings of a laugh edged with righteous anger.
“You?
Tear off the head of Priest Cassiel?” His tone rides the line
between mocking and offended. “Childish boasting. Cassiel was
chosen, blessed. A mortal girl in a machine could no more
kill him than she could kill the Absolute Himself.”
Arturo
steps forward. Too far forward.
Spartan’s
arm snaps out to stop him, but he twists free, just enough to break
her grip. He pushes ahead of her, boots crunching through the snow,
his breath fogging in uneven bursts.
“Wait—”
Spartan mutters, knowing this is a mistake, reaching for him again.
Too late.
“Priest
Thaneus!” Arturo calls out. His voice cracks, but the boy stands
his ground. “Do you speak English?”
Thaneus
pauses. The titansteed beneath him shifts, snorting plumes of white.
The priest studies Arturo, a flicker of confusion, then interest,
then something colder. After a long moment, he inclines his head.
“…I
do.”
That’s
all Arturo needs.
“Then
listen to me,” he says, louder now. “You don’t have to fight
us. Any of us. The Eldiravan, they are the enemy. They
burned your cities same as ours. If humanity doesn’t stand
together, we’re all going to die. All our nations, all our faiths,
everything we’ve built; gone. You have to see that!”
Spartan
fights the urge to drag him backward. Even Samayel shifts uneasily.
Rho Voss stays absolutely still, his visor fixed on Thaneus.
Thaneus
stares down at Arturo the way one might study an animal that
wandered, trembling, out of the woods.
A
lamb. Lost. Bleating at shadows it can’t comprehend.
“Boy…”
Thaneus says softly, almost pityingly. “This is not a fable told
before bedtime. Nor is it a story where all men join hands to triumph
over a common foe.” He leans forward slightly, eyes hard as glacier
stone. “You play at war. You grasp at heaven and earth, but
understand neither.”
Arturo’s
jaw tightens.
Thaneus
continues, voice dripping with cold certainty, “This is not a
children’s fairy tale. This is judgment.”
Arturo
doesn’t back down. His breath quakes in the frozen air, but he
lifts his chin.
“There
is a scripture you follow that calls for unity,” he says.
“Peace among brethren. Mercy before judgment. The Absolute
teaches—”
Thaneus
shifts. Only slightly, but it is enough to say he is listening.
Encouraged,
Arturo continues, words tumbling out in a rush of faith and
desperation.
“I’ve
talked to the Vardengard. I’ve read what little your texts share
with ours. You speak of the First Covenant, of man standing together
under the gaze of the Absolute. In my faith, too, we’re taught that
divided kingdoms fall. That brothers who turn their swords on each
other invite their downfall. You know this. You know unity
is the will of God, of the Absolute. So why are we fighting each
other when the Eldiravan are slaughtering us all?”
A
ripple of surprise passes through Thaneus’ expression, quick,
almost imperceptible. The battalion murmurs behind him. Even the
titansteed flicks an ear, sensing a shift in its rider.
Then
Thaneus laughs. A low, disbelieving rumble that builds, rolling out
across the snow.
“You
speak of the Covenant?” he says, amusement curling his lips. “You
quote our scriptures back to me?” He tilts his head,
studying Arturo again, this time with a strange, almost appreciative
scrutiny. “Tell me, boy… are you a warrior-priest among your
people?”
Arturo
swallows. “No. I’m not. But I’m a believer. A devout one.”
“That,”
Thaneus replies, “is what surprises me most.”
His
tone shifts, soft, almost gentle. Dangerously gentle. “You waste
your devotion here. Waste it on these…” He gestures at Spartan
with the faintest tap of his staff. “…heretics. These forged
demons wearing skin of man.”
Samayel
stiffens. Rho Voss’ gauntlet twitches toward his weapon. Spartan
remains motionless, visor locked on Thaneus.
Thaneus
leans forward slightly in the saddle, voice lowering with solemn
conviction.
“Boy,”
he says, as though speaking a sacred truth, “you are kind.
Merciful. You have been misled, but your heart is good. The Absolute
cherishes hearts like yours.”
Arturo
takes a step back. Just one.
Thaneus
extends a hand, not reaching, but offering.
“Leave
them,” he says. “Leave these heathens behind. Ignore their
whispers, their corruption, their lies. Walk with us. With the
Venators. With me. You will be welcomed. Cherished.
Protected. Given purpose under the true banner of man.”
The
snow falls in absolute silence. The Vardengard freeze. Even Spartan’s
breath seems to stop.
Thaneus
smiles. “Turn now, boy,” he finishes softly. “Before their
darkness consumes you as well.”
Arturo’s
breath trembles in the frozen air. He looks at Thaneus, towering,
radiant in his own terrible way. He looks back at Spartan, scarred
metal, hard lines, a figure shaped by war and survival.
A
heartbeat. Two. Three….
There
is a part of him, deep, buried, old as faith, that wants to
step toward Thaneus. Toward the hymns he half-recognizes. Toward the
order that feels like a reflection of stories he grew up with.
But
then he remembers Spartan’s words, heavy and ancient: “Don’t
mistake resemblance for kinship.”
He
remembers Samayel’s blunt certainty. He remembers the way Spartan
threw herself over him in the avalanche without hesitation. He
remembers that these people, whatever they are, have saved his life
more times than he can count.
Arturo
steps back. Shaking his head. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “I
won’t. I’m not leaving anyone behind.”
Thaneus
studies him, expression unreadable beneath the snow-dusted light.
Arturo takes another step back, standing firmly between Spartan’s
group and the Venators’ encirclement.
“You
want me to walk away,” Arturo continues, “but you’re not
offering peace. You’re offering surrender. You’re offering me a
place while planning to slaughter the others.”
Thaneus
laughs, rich and cold and almost pitying.
“Oh,
child,” he says. “You think you understand our purpose?” He
shakes his head slowly, tightening his grip on the golden
cross-topped staff. “We
do not aim to kill the Vardengard,” he says. “We aim to
save them.”
Snow
swirls between them like drifting ash.
“We
see their affliction. Their corruption. The demons inside their
flesh.” His eyes flick briefly toward Samayel, then Rho Voss, then
Spartan, his expression softening into something disturbingly
compassionate. “We do not wish harm upon them. No… far from it.
We wish only to bring them back into the Light of the Absolute.”
Samayel
snorts. Rho Voss’ fingers flex. Spartan remains utterly still.
Thaneus
goes on as though he hasn’t noticed.
“And
the Federation?” Another soft smile. “Your people are misguided,
but not beyond redemption. It is the duty of all Praevectus to guide
humanity, to shepherd it. To correct its course.” His eyes harden,
just slightly. “But we cannot heal the flock while the wolves stand
among them.”
Arturo’s
jaw tightens. “You mean them,” he says, nodding back toward
Spartan, Rho, Samayel.
Thaneus
inclines his head. “They are not wolves by choice,” he says
gently. “They are wolves because demons have made them so. Their
souls…” A breath.“…cry out for liberation.”
Arturo
feels a chill crawl down his spine that has nothing to do with the
cold. He turns slightly, enough to catch Spartan’s visor. Enough to
see Rho Voss shift his footing. Enough to feel Samayel’s silent,
bracing presence.
Then
he looks back at Thaneus, voice steadier than he feels. “You’re
wrong,” Arturo says. “They’re not demons. They’re not
possessed. They’re not monsters.”
Thaneus’
smile is soft. “Child,” he says, “that is exactly what someone
possessed would say.”
The
entire battalion shifts as one, shields bracing, weapons lowering,
not attacking yet, but ready.
Around
them the mountains fall into breathless silence.
And
in that silence, Spartan’s gauntlet closes slowly, inch by inch,
around the grip of her weapon.
Samayel
steps forward before Spartan can speak, before she can even shift her
weight. His voice cuts the cold like a blade dragged over stone.
“Don’t listen to him, Arturo,” Samayel snaps. “All they do is
lie. Twist the world to fit their scripture. Fabricate whatever makes
them feel righteous. They’ll call themselves heroes while they
butcher you in the snow.”
Thaneus
tilts his head, studying Samayel as though peering through fog. Then
recognition.
A
slow smile spreads across his face. “…Samayel?”
Samayel’s
shoulders go rigid.
Thaneus
breathes a soft laugh, almost delighted. “So it is you.”
He leans forward slightly atop his titansteed, eyes brightening.
“Alive. After all this time. My favorite little Vardengard… I
mourned you, you know. I thought Absjorn had truly lost you.”
Samayel
growls, a low, animal sound vibrating through the air.
Thaneus
continues, amusement warming his voice. “And if you’re alive…
then the rest of your pack must be as well. Which means…” He
chuckles. “Naburiel lied to Absjorn. How bold of him. I should
congratulate him.”
Samayel
steps forward another pace, teeth bared behind the mask of his hood
and armor. “I’m not going back,” he snarls. “None of us are.
You’ll never touch another Vardengard again.”
Thaneus
simply laughs. A deep, rolling sound that echoes off the icy cliffs.
“Oh, Samayel. You always were dramatic.” He lifts his staff,
slow, ceremonial, its golden cross glittering even in the dim light.
“All
units!” Thaneus calls, voice ringing like a cathedral bell through
the snow. “Seize them. All of them.”
A
hundred boots shift. Shields lock. Spears lower. Cavalry tightens its
noose around the ridge.
Spartan’s
visor lowers. Rho Voss slides one foot back, weight dropping into a
predatory stance. Red Baron grabs Liam by the shoulder, dragging him
behind a jut of frozen stone. Arturo’s breath catches in his
throat, but he stands his ground.
And
Samayel… Samayel smiles. A thin, feral thing. Because if Thaneus
wants his “favorite little Vardengard,” he’s about to learn
exactly what Samayel has become.
Samayel
breaks. There is no warning, no shout, no breath drawn, no glance
traded. Just the sound of something snapping inside him.
He
moves. Faster than the Federalists can register. Faster than Spartan
can intercept. Arturo reflexively steps aside as a blur of shimmering
black tears past him, the snow erupting in a gust.
Samayel
is gone, hurtling across the plateau, spear in hand, every ounce of
caged terror and rage twisted into momentum.
“Samayel!”
Spartan lunges after him, too slow by a heartbeat, fingers closing on
empty air.
Rho
Voss swears under his breath. The Venators react instantly. Shields
raise. Spears pivot. Cavalry braces. But Samayel isn’t aiming for
them. He’s aiming for one man.
Priest
Thaneus.
The
titansteed senses the killing intent before its rider does. It
screams, rears high, iron spikes along its hooves glinting wickedly.
Snowflakes freeze midair as the beast’s front legs crash down.
Samayel slips beneath them with a speed that defies even
Venator-trained eyes.
Thaneus’
laughter booms across the ridge.
Samayel’s
spear thrusts forward, straight for the priest’s breastplate and
Thaneus catches the blade between two fingers. Effortless.
“Samayel,”
Thaneus chides, voice warm as a teacher correcting a child’s grip,
“who do you think taught you to wield this weapon?”
Samayel
snarls, bracing, trying to wrench the spear free. Thaneus doesn’t
budge. Not an inch. With a smooth twist of his wrist, he rips the
spear from Samayel’s grasp.
The
titansteed pivots sharply, its flank slamming into Samayel, turning
its body with primitive, brutal efficiency. A rear leg kicks out. The
hoof slams into Samayel’s chestplate, hard enough to bend
titanium.
The
impact sounds like a car crash muffled under snow.
Samayel
flies backward, tumbling across the ice, carving a trench in the
drift before finally skidding to a stop, coughing, armor dented
inward, breath stolen from his lungs.
Arturo
shouts his name. Rho Voss lowers into a ready stance. Spartan’s
hands curl into fists.
Thaneus
spins the captured spear once, testing its balance, smiling like a
father reclaiming a lost toy.
“Come
now,” he calls out, voice ringing with amusement and cruel
fondness. “Let’s not make this harder than it must be.”
Spartan
breaks into a sprint, boots carving trenches through the snow, breath
steaming through her helm as a string of coarse curses slips out.
“Should’ve
listened,
Arturo!” she snaps, voice sharp as steel striking steel. “Now go,
help him before he freezes to death!”
Red
Baron and Liam don’t wait. They rush to Samayel’s crumpled form,
snow spraying behind them. Arturo lingers, jaw tight, glaring at
Spartan as if she’s somehow to blame for the man who launched
himself at a mounted war-giant. But even he yields, turning on his
heel and retreating toward the others.
Spartan’s
blade is out in the same breath, cold metal, matte black, hungry.
Rho
Voss steps up beside her, massive as a siege tower, his zweihander
resting on one broad shoulder like it weighs nothing.
“On
me,” Spartan growls.
They
charge.
The
world becomes thunder, boots pounding, wind howling, Thaneus’
titansteed screaming as it pivots to meet them. Snow blasts upward
under its claws.
They
split at the last second, Spartan veering left, Rho Voss right, their
shadows slicing through the storm. They move fast, trained, lethal.
But
Thaneus moves faster.
He
turns in the saddle as though the world is turning with him, cloak
whipping, helm gleaming like obsidian carved into a skull. One
gauntleted hand drags the seized spear behind him like a trophy. The
titansteed shifts its weight, muscles coiling under plated hide.
Spartan
swings, clean, precise, aiming for the gap between saddle and armpit.
Thaneus
leans back just enough, her blade carving a spark along the edge of
his armor. At the same instant he snaps his reins, and the titansteed
lunges sideways.
Rho
Voss’ zweihander whistles through the air only to meet nothing but
snow and wind.
Thaneus
laughs, deep and thunderous, a sound that rolls across the frozen
field like an avalanche.
They
attacked together. They attacked well. But Thaneus moves as if he
already knows every strike before they make it. And he is better, far
better, than they ever dared imagine.
