Oaths in Vacuum

A cathedral of steel ribs and hanging banners—HOUSE SIGILS stitched beside LEGION BLANKS. Recruits in mismatched armor stand in uneasy blocks, eyes cutting across old enemies.

At the far end: the IRON PSALTER CORE, a black obelisk veined with dim light. Servo-arms hold a spiked stylus above a strip of metal ribbon.

LEGATE SERA KEST (30s, hard-edged) steps onto a raised dais. Her voice carries without strain.

You are not here as House Vale, House Brenn, or gutter-born debt levy. You are here because the corridor opened—and the Empire decided bodies are cheaper than time.

A few recruits bristle. A VALE NOBLE RECRUIT lifts his chin.

My oath is to my House.

Kest walks to the edge of the dais. Close enough to be personal.

Then keep it. Quietly.

But your orders will come from me.

She turns—gestures to the obelisk.

SERA KEST (CONT’D)

This is the Iron Psalter. It does not care who raised you. It records what you do.

A HUM builds. The stylus taps—tiny, precise—like a heartbeat.

DR. IVO RELLAN (40s, skeptical, in a plain flight coat) watches from the side, uneasy. TRIBUNE JANNIK COR (30s, sharp-eyed) stands near a portable muster console, scanning faces and numbers.

Kest signals. Two ARMORED TECHS bring forward the first recruit.

The recruit places a bare hand on a cold contact plate at the Psalter’s base. The obelisk reads—light crawls up its veins.

PSALTER (V.O.)

OATH CHANNEL: ACTIVE.

Kest produces a narrow iron ring—unfinished, utilitarian. She snaps it around the recruit’s wrist with a click.

Speak.

I obey the Legion’s chain. I keep station. I hold—until relieved or dead.

The stylus bites the metal ribbon. A line engraves with a metallic SHRIEK.

PSALTER (V.O.)

CASUALTY LEDGER: PRIMED.

A ripple moves through the ranks—fear disguised as pride.

Kest’s eyes travel across the blocks.

The Psalter logs orders. It logs disobedience. It logs your blood—by timestamp, by compartment, by name.

If you die, it will not be for a lie someone told later.

Ivo flinches at that—because he hears the implication.

Unless the lie is written now.

Nearby, Cor’s muster console pings—an error tone swallowed by the hall’s hum. He frowns, thumb scrolling.

ON COR’S SCREEN: “TOTAL PRESENT: 1,240.”

A second line flickers: “AUTHORIZED TOTAL: 1,400.”

Cor looks up—counts rows with his eyes. The blocks are too thin.

That’s not drift. That’s missing people.

He moves through the edge of the formation, discreet, scanning wrist rings.

COR (CONT’D)

Where’s Third Cohort, bay C?

Third Cohort’s logged in. Transfer completed.

Cor’s jaw tightens. He taps the Psalter obelisk’s side panel—restricted access.

A denial tone.

PSALTER (V.O.)

TRIBUNE ACCESS: LIMITED.

REQUEST: FILED.

Cor watches Kest at the dais, then the recruits—then the banners of rival houses.

He realizes the simplest answer is the ugliest.

Kest stands before the entire hall. The last recruit steps away, ring locked, oath carved.

Kest lifts her own wrist—an iron ring scarred with old notches.

You will hate each other. Fine. Hate is fuel.

But the chain is the chain—

—and the Psalter is the witness.

She steps down into the ranks. Recruits part instinctively.

SERA KEST (CONT’D)

Cohorts will mix. Houses will break. You will learn one language: *order*.

Cor approaches from the side, careful not to undermine her—only close enough for truth.

Legate. Muster totals don’t match the bodies. We’re short.

Kest doesn’t stop walking. Her eyes stay forward.

How short?

At least one hundred sixty. Logged as present. Not here.

A beat. Kest’s hand tightens around her gauntlet strap—controlled anger, not surprise.

Then someone wants a legion on paper.

And a massacre in the Psalter.

She finally looks at Cor.

SERA KEST (CONT’D)

Find where they went. Don’t make noise.

Cor nods once—already turning away.

Kest faces the recruits again, voice rising to fill the hall.

SERA KEST (CONT’D)

First drill begins now. Vacuum acclimation.

If your lungs panic, the Psalter will write it down—

—and I will train you until it doesn’t.

The obelisk’s veins brighten, as if listening.

PSALTER (V.O.)

TIMESTAMP: LOCKED.

Cor slips into the shadow of the banners, scanning for ghosts in a legion that hasn’t even launched.