Chapter Text
After the incident known as the Collapse, when tendrils of darkness collapsed living planets, the suddenly homeless fled as quickly as possible to an undiscovered asteroid belt. It became their mass graveyard, and it was called the Reef.
It would become the final sandbar before an endless ocean of stars. Starlit Awoken are born here, in the shadow of giants. The Queen and her chitin-armored Wolves stalk the territories. Alliances and enemies are broken and re-forged. Guardians ignite their Light in the far reaches of the void, so it blazes brighter than ever.
Surviving the Reef is the only way to overcome the allure of the violet, violent shades of the dead orbit.
“Well,” says Cayde-6, scratching his horn, “this isn’t your typical invitation.”
Zavala agrees somewhat reluctantly, his arms folded tightly across his chest as his eyes fix on the thick, blue-hued swords on the conference table. Any soldier would recognize them as the weapons brandished by merciless Fallen Captains. But they were typically meant for bloodshed, not summons.
Ikora Rey says nothing. Her Ghost, Ophiuchus, examines how the swords are swathed and tucked neatly in emerald green fabric painted with ivory sigils.
“Postmaster also said it came with a recorded message.” Cayde-6 tosses a small black disk on the table and after a brief moment of static, the husk of a voice crawls across distances of lightyears.
The Vanguard, all of them battling a fierce unease, listen closely to the familiar drawl.
“On behalf of the Queen, Guardian, return quick. Wolves hunt their own.” The voice pauses, then returns in a silky growl. “Painted. Silent. Vox. Come listen, Guardian. Come again.” The message starts to repeat itself when Cayde-6 switches it off.
“How did it arrive at the Tower?” Zavala asks.
“By mail. Can you believe it? Talk about an oversized package.” The Exo flicks his gaze over to Ikora, who remains silent with a furrowed brow. “Vox. I know the Ghost. One of your students, right? The one with the broken modulator?”
Ikora nods slowly. “She is new to the Light. The Reef is far from the Traveler. I fear that she will not be ready for this challenge, whatever it may be.” Even as she says this, Ikora senses that there is no malice in the snake-like voice. Though it is filled with cunning, the voice is unexpectedly kind. Why?
Come listen, Guardian. Come again.
The Awoken Titan sighs, and his unusual, sparking gaze drifts across the retired blades. “We must consider the powers at play. Queen Mara and the Reef is a significant benefactor for many of our Guardians. Allow your Guardian to answer the call; and when she returns, she will be stronger for herself and the City.”
And because Ikora Rey is a Voidwalker, and because being one with the Void requires complete and absolute faith in the uncertain, she agrees.
Amethyst-born Petra Venj, who dresses in colors of her birthplace, glances over to tattered furs and verdant banners.
The Eliksni known as Variks the Loyal interlaces his claws over and over again as if nervous or deep in thought. Claws curling and flexing, then tightening the grasp on the Devil’s staff, battle-worn and more importantly, battle-won. Variks tucks his undocked arms close to his abdomen and under his cloak. He still dreams of losing his limbs to the hiss of steel.
Petra bites back a smile and plays with her dagger.
Variks the Loyal stiffens as her pervading stare descends like a winter’s frost. “What do you see, Queen’s Wrath?” he demands coldly.
“I see fear. Does House Judgement know no confidence?” she asks, grinning openly now. “Are you so easily rattled by a fresh Guardian?”
Variks snarls and cracks the staff against the deck angrily. Petra merely raises an eyebrow. Completely unfazed. As quickly as his temper flares, his shoulders shift and sink as his ire gives way. And then he is back to impatiently twisting his hands.
“Do well to listen,” Variks mutters, “for House Judgement waits. This Guardian has… influence.”
“Influence. Right.” She glides her thumb across the floating dagger, ignoring Varik’s intense gaze at the display of power. Telekinesis, some whisper. Starlit, others claim. “If I hadn’t witnessed a Captain slice his throat open with his own blades, I might laugh. What sort of influence? Power? Skill?”
The Fallen releases one of his clawed limbs from the staff and gestures at his chest. “Within. Promises. Covenant of the Great Machine.”
“Dozens of Guardians, in and out of the outpost, and this one manages to start a cult.”
“She does not know.” Variks grumbles.
“And? The Queen’s Wolves are out of line. They’re killing themselves, Variks, and I’ve got patrols to run.”
The floating silver blade trembles, and then falls into her ready grasp, moments before his claw flashes in an attempt to nab the weapon. His kind always had a penchant for shiny trinkets. Petra smiles thinly, though it does not reach her pale blue eye. She jabs the hilt in the Eliksni’s direction.
“As I asked before: What’s so special about this Guardian?”
A low, crafty growl shivers through his frame. “We shall find out, yes?” Variks purrs.