"The Broken Crown of Spindle VI"

[Markus Chorvus]

Ashes of the Empire

The rain hit like plasma drops against the durasteel rooftops of Port Malrik, a crater-town built in the shadow of the ruins of Spindle VI's former glory. The once-great city of Halbarrow had long collapsed into a mosaic of black-market stalls, cartel territory, and rusting relics of forgotten technology. In the city's Lower Quads, Markus Chorvus, now forty-four, walked alone — a shadow among the lost.

Once a commander. Once a spymaster. Now a drifter.

Markus's durasteel chainmail recon armor hummed softly with kinetic buffering as he moved, the Gauss rifle slung across his back and the Envado Marksman pistol resting lightly on his hip. His pale tan skin bore new scars; his ocean-blue eyes, flickering with fluorescent white when anger loomed, scanned each alley and rooftop. There were always watchers on Spindle VI.

He had returned home not for peace, but for a name.

The name of the one who betrayed his family years ago — the reason the Chorvus clan was cast from Halbarrow's ivory towers to the sewer trenches of the Undercity. And whispers told him this name had resurfaced in Sector 7, working alongside a reformed syndicate known as The Crimson Sun, offshoots of the now-scattered Crimson Dawn.

But Spindle VI had changed. And so had Markus.​

 

[Markus Chorvus]

The sky above Spindle VI was not considered a sky at this point as much as it was a bruise.


Blackened clouds hung heavy over the decaying superstructures of the old Halbarrow spires, their peaks sheared off from atmospheric wars and corporate bombings that no one cared to record anymore. Ashes drifted in the wind like tiny regrets. The acidic rainfall came at dusk, falling in sheets thick enough to peel paint from speeder hoods and pit glass.


Through it all walked Markus Chorvus — trenchcoat soaked, armor underneath echoing with every silent footstep on cracked duracrete. Not rushing. Never rushing. Every movement is deliberate. He moved with the slow grace of a predator who had seen too many traps to fall for one.


He returned to his homeworld not for comfort — there was no such thing for men like him — but for answers. The whispers were real. The name Raze had resurfaced, and deep down, Markus knew only one kind of man would hide behind that title: an Arkanian who'd traded honor for control.


His fluorescent eyes scanned the slumscape of Port Malrik like targeting lenses — cold, unreadable, untouchable.


Inside The Oxygen Edge, a bar built inside the husk of an old weather station, Markus ducked beneath low pipes and past drunk mercs. He slid into the corner booth, already knowing who was waiting.


Kirel Vos, his old E.I.A. handler, still wore the same shoddy half-cloak, still trying to look invisible in a room full of ghosts.

"You don't belong here, Mark," Kirel muttered. "You walk like you own the place. People notice that. People get nervous."

Markus didn't blink. He didn't have to.

"Let them."

Kirel slid over a rusted data crystal and sipped from his mug.

"Raze is real. You were right. He's holed up beneath the biotech sector. But he's not alone anymore. He's got muscle. Tech freaks. A couple off-world thugs who move like ex-syndicate. And someone else—"

Markus's brow twitched just once.

"Someone else?"

"A girl," Kirel said carefully. "Name's Nali Vex. Mixed-species. Human-Zeltron, maybe. She's maybe twenty-five. She's been running smuggling ops for him. Quiet. Efficient. But get this — she carries an E.I.A. insignia. Standard issue. Yours, Mark. One of yours."

Silence settled like a body on the table.

Markus didn't ask for elaboration. He never asked twice. Instead, he stood and tossed a credit chit onto the table, enough to cover Kirel's fake life for a month.

"If she's wearing my mark, she either earned it... or stole it."

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Underworld Levels – Sub-Sector 11
​

Markus moved through the dark like something elemental — less a man, more a shape with purpose.


Down in the Underwalk, past the maintenance shafts and sewage lifts of Old Halbarrow, he waited for her.


Nali Vex was punctual. She wore a tattered half-jacket over flexible armor, black hair tied back in a braid, bright violet eyes watching everything, missing nothing. She didn't draw her blaster when she saw him. That was her first mistake.

"You're him," she said, tilting her head. "The Arkanian ghost. Markus Chorvus. Raze said you'd show up."

Markus didn't speak. He stepped forward.


She instinctively stepped back, reaching for her hip — too slow. In one motion, Markus grabbed her wrist, twisted, disarmed her, and pressed the barrel of her own blaster between her eyes.

"Why are you wearing my mark?"

"I found it," she spat. "Wreckage outside Doma Station. Didn't think you'd miss it. Didn't even know you were alive."

"You're not trained."

"I didn't need to be. I got out. I survived."

Markus lowered the blaster slowly — a subtle shift in judgment.....not forgiveness.

"Survival's easy," he said, turning his back to her. "Discipline is what keeps you alive after that."

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Over the next few weeks, Nali shadowed him — uninvited. He never asked for help. Never spoke more than a few words. But she followed. Learned. Watched the way he moved, the way he fought. How he listened to every breath in the room, mapped every escape route in every location. She'd never seen someone calculate everything like that. It wasn't skill — it was warfare hardwired into bone.​

"You know," she said one night, both crouched on an overpass above a Crimson Sun convoy, "You could teach me."

"I'm not a teacher," Markus growled.

"You're already doing it."

He didn't look at her.

Didn't have to.

She was right. And he hated that.

Wind rips across a skeletal outpost overlooking a smuggling route. Light fog curls across the metallic floor. NALI trails behind MARKUS by several paces — not close enough to be a partner, not far enough to be ignored.

NALI
(gritting her teeth)
You've been circling this ridge for two hours. There's nothing here.

MARKUS
(quietly, without turning)
That's what they want you to think.


He stops. Kneels. Brushes away a thin coating of ash from a pressure plate buried in the metal.


NALI
What is that?

MARKUS
It's an eye.

NALI
A sensor?

MARKUS
No. An eye. Watching for anyone stupid enough to stop moving.

He stands, steps aside, motions at the plate.

Disarm it.

NALI
You serious?

MARKUS
If you can't handle a trigger plate, you're wasting both our time.

NALI
I don't even have tools.

MARKUS
You've got fingers. USE THEM

She crouches. Hesitates. Her eyes scan the seams, breathing slow and focused. Her hands are steady… until a click sounds beneath the plate. Markus immediately draws his pistol and backs two steps.

MARKUS
You've got three seconds.

NALI
(shouting)
I KNOW. Just let me—shut up.

She pries a broken fuse cylinder from her jacket pocket and wedges it into the side hinge. Sweat beads at her brow. Another click. She jerks back.

Nothing happens.

Markus doesn't move. His pistol remains steady — aimed directly at the plate.

NALI
It's disarmed. You can thank me now.

MARKUS
(quietly holstering his weapon)
If it was disarmed, it wouldn't be flashing red.

BOOM — the plate pulses but doesn't explode. The trigger flares, then fizzles out. A decoy charge. Nali looks up at him, furious.

NALI
You knew?

MARKUS
I needed to know if you flinch when it counts.

NALI
And?

MARKUS
(grimly)
You flinched. But you finished it. You're not dead. That's a start.

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Cargo Nest Tavern — Hours Later
​

Inside the tavern, Markus quietly cleans his Gauss rifle. Nali slumps in the corner across the table, soaked, scowling. A long silence sits between them like an old war wound.


NALI
So this is what trust looks like? Tests? Mind games? Death traps?

MARKUS
Trust isn't given. It's survived.

NALI
What the hell did you survive?


MARKUS
(watching her carefully)
The Elysium collapse.

(leans in slightly)
The betrayal of everyone I bled for.

You want to play soldier, wear my insignia, and walk in my shadow?
Then you earn every second of my silence.
You earn every time I don't put a blaster to your back.

NALI
Then stop holding back. If you're going to train me, do it right.

MARKUS
I'm not training you.

NALI
Then why let me live?

MARKUS
Because I don't waste ammo on things that might become useful later.

She stares at him. A flicker of something in her expression — not respect, not yet… but understanding.

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Rooftop Perch Overlooking the Ruins
​

Markus stands alone, overlooking the ruins of Halbarrow. Nali climbs up slowly behind him, stopping beside him. He says nothing.


NALI
You still think about them, don't you?

MARKUS
No.
I remember them. I don't think about them.

NALI
Difference?

MARKUS
Thinking gets you emotional. Remembering keeps you sharp.


She watches him for a second. He doesn't meet her gaze.


NALI
What now?

MARKUS
Now... we hunt.

NALI
Raze?

MARKUS
Not yet.
(smiles slightly — the first time)
First, we cut out the snakes he sent ahead.

 

[Markus Chorvus]

The glow of broken terminals flickers dimly across the rusted walls. Cables hang like vines. Static hums faintly in the background. Water drips from cracked overhead pipes.

MARKUS stands in front of a deactivated terminal embedded in the wall — old tech from the Elysium era. He kneels and slides a connector from his gauntlet into the port. Sparks hiss, and the terminal comes to life with a deep whine.


NALI
That thing's older than half the buildings in Halbarrow.

MARKUS
Old means forgotten. Forgotten means secure.

Data scrolls rapidly across the screen. Then, it stops. A single encrypted file pulses in deep red:

::RAZE.PROTOCOL//ECHO-ORIGIN::


Markus exhales — slow and deliberate.

MARKUS
There you are, you bastard.


He activates the file. A hologram emerges from the terminal — low-res, flickering — but unmistakably RAZE. Arkanian. Clean-shaven. Eyes unnatural — mechanical overlays gleaming. Voice smooth and venomous.

RAZE (HOLOGRAM)
(to the camera)
Hello, Mark. I wondered how long it would take you.
You always were stubborn — a trait the Empire beat out of most. Not you.
You clung to honor like it was worth something.


Markus steps closer, his eyes narrowing.


RAZE (HOLOGRAM)
But look at you now — hiding in the ruins of what you couldn't protect.
Wearing a legacy like rusted armor.
Still pretending you're not obsolete.


NALI
(quietly)
He knows you. Personally.

MARKUS
He was a brother. Once.

RAZE (HOLOGRAM)
I'm not here to gloat. I'm here to invite.
When the storm hits Spindle VI, you'll either kneel… or you'll be the first to fall.
But don't worry. I've made sure the new generation won't forget your face.


The message ends with a static pulse. Then, the screen glitches — flickers — and a still image appears: NALI'S FACE captured through a distant scope, time-stamped. Marked as:
:: POTENTIAL LEVERAGE ::


Nali stares. Her breath catches for just a second.

NALI
They've been watching me.


MARKUS
They've been using you.

NALI
Why didn't you warn me?

He yanks the connector from the terminal, killing the power. His jaw is tight, his eyes burning faint white.

MARKUS
Because I needed to see what you'd do with a target on your back.


The Wind howls faintly through the broken ventilation shafts above.


MARKUS
You kept up. You didn't fold. You got through the worst of it without flinching.

NALI
You said I flinched earlier.

MARKUS
(slight smirk)
Well... you saw it through.

He tosses her the encrypted data crystal he just extracted from the system. She catches it.

MARKUS
You want in? This isn't a rescue mission. It's war. And it's not clean.

NALI
Then why keep me around?

MARKUS
Because war doesn't care if you're ready.
I do.

A second of silence. Then, for the first time —

MARKUS
Pack light. We move before dawn.

NALI
To where?


MARKUS
To where Raze started building his kingdom.

NALI
And what's the plan?

Markus turns, his silhouette framed in the pulsing red glow of the dying terminal. His voice low. Cold. Final.


MARKUS
We burn it down.