SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

The dimly lit bar hummed with quiet conversations and the occasional clink of glasses, but for Icarus, the noise barely registered. She sat slouched at the counter, one elbow propped up as her fingers traced lazy patterns on the condensation pooling around her glass. The dull glow of a muted news broadcast flickered across the far wall, the sound low but audible enough to gnaw at her nerves.

"...another cluster of civilians found alive in a subterranean shelter, thanks to the revolutionary sonar technology now being employed in deep Earth search and rescue operations..."

Her eyes flicked up to the screen, narrowing slightly as the anchor's cheerful expression grated against her frayed emotions. A sweeping graphic displayed the latest statistics: thousands rescued over the past month using this "miraculous" new tech.

"Miraculous," she muttered bitterly under her breath, tilting her glass and letting the amber liquid swirl lazily inside. "More like convenient timing."

The news shifted to footage of jubilant survivors being pulled from underground bunkers and collapsed tunnels, the words "A Revolution in Saving Lives" emblazoned across the screen. Icarus's jaw tightened. She didn't begrudge the civilians their safety; she was glad they'd been found. But she knew damn well the only reason anyone had scrambled to create that tech wasn't out of goodwill—it was because of him.

Her hero.

No. He was more than that.

She downed the rest of her drink in a single bitter gulp, slamming the glass onto the counter harder than she intended. The bartender glanced over, but she didn't care. She leaned forward, her forehead briefly resting against her hand as she stared blankly at the four empty bottles of Hazy Predator lined up neatly before her.

Eilífr.

The name cut through her thoughts like a blade, bringing with it a wave of emotions she didn't want to face. Her chest tightened, and she blinked hard, fighting the sting behind her eyes. He wasn't just her hero from her childhood or the man she'd flown missions for. He was the one who believed in her when no one else had.

When she was a rookie pilot, fresh out of training and filled with more doubt than confidence, he'd looked at her like she could do the impossible. And under his unshakable gaze, she had. Time and time again, he'd trusted her to pull them out of the fire, and she'd never once let him down.

Until she did.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening. She wasn't going to cry. Not here. Not now.

The bartender approached, his voice quiet but firm. "Another round?"

She nodded without looking up. "One more. And close my tab after that."

He hesitated for a moment before nodding and retreating to fetch her drink.

Icarus exhaled slowly, forcing herself to let go of the counter. She glanced at the screen again, watching the smiling faces of the rescued civilians as they waved at the camera. The anchor prattled on about how the sonar's success marked a new era of hope in the fight against the Extractants.

Hope, she thought bitterly, her lips curling into a faint sneer. Where was that hope when he needed it?

She reached for one of the empty bottles, turning it idly in her hands. The label—an image of a sleek predator diving through a stormy sky—caught the dim light of the bar. It reminded her of him in a way. Silent. Deadly. Focused.

The bartender returned, placing the fresh bottle in front of her. She nodded her thanks, though her gaze stayed fixed on the label in her hands.

"I don't want to forget," she muttered under her breath as she set the bottle down. "But I can't keep living like this either."

Lifting the fresh drink, she stared into the amber liquid, the flickering news broadcast reflecting faintly in the glass. She thought about downing it in one go, drowning herself in the temporary relief it offered, but stopped.

"No," she whispered, setting it back down with a sigh. Her shoulders slumped as the weight of her grief pressed down again. She wanted to forget. She wanted to stop hurting. But she wasn't going to lose herself in a bottle. She owed him more than that.

With trembling fingers, she pushed the untouched drink away. The bartender gave her a curious glance but didn't say anything as she rose from her seat, tossing a few credits onto the counter.

"Keep the rest," she said, her voice hoarse.

As she stepped out into the cold night air, she took a deep breath, letting the chill wash over her. The stars above were faint, barely visible against the distant glow of Carnitas, but she found herself looking for something—someone—out there.

The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the glow of numerous monitors and the flickering of a sterile overhead lamp casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. In one corner, a suit of armor loomed in silence. Its matte black surface was scorched and cracked, faint streaks of blue hemacrine gel dried along its jagged edges. The visor was dark, lifeless, yet it seemed to watch the scene unfold—a silent sentinel bearing witness to what came next.

The armor's presence was oppressive, almost malevolent. It radiated an unspoken warning, as though the room itself held its breath in deference to whatever force the suit had once contained. Each scratch, dent, and scar on its surface told a story of unimaginable violence, a testament to the battles its occupant had endured—and survived.

On the far side of the room, the scene was far from silent. Scientists and doctors bustled around a central operating table, their voices overlapping in hurried commands. A man lay there, his body still, save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His face was pale, barely visible beneath the network of cables and sensors adhered to his skin. Vital signs danced erratically on nearby monitors, the jagged lines and shrill alarms a constant reminder of how close he teetered to the edge.

"Vitals spiking again!" a young scientist shouted, her voice tinged with panic. "Heart rate at 186 and climbing! We're losing stability!"

"Increase hemacrine flow to compensatory levels," barked an older doctor, his face lined with exhaustion but his hands steady as he worked the controls. "We need to keep him tethered to the system. If we lose him now—"

"He won't stabilize at this rate!" another voice cut in. "The augmentation's rejection levels are off the charts. His body isn't adapting fast enough to handle the suit's interface."

The center of their focus was the operating table, but near it, displayed like a prize yet to be claimed, stood a new suit of armor. Sleek and lethal, its olive-green plating gleamed faintly under the sterile light, its surface unblemished and waiting. The armor was different—sharper lines, reinforced joints, and a faint hum emanating from within, as if the suit itself was alive, impatiently anticipating its first mission.

"It's overheating!" someone shouted. The words jolted Icarus awake, her head snapping up from where it rested against the back of a supply crate. For a moment, she was disoriented, her mind struggling to separate the fragments of the dream from the reality of the hangar around her. The harsh fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the rows of tools, spare parts, and idle ships. The air smelled faintly of oil and burnt metal, grounding her back in the present.

She rubbed her face, her palms pressing against her eyes as she tried to shake off the lingering images. The sound of frenzied voices, the ominous black suit, and the polished green armor still played in her head like an echo she couldn't silence. Her chest ached, as if the dream had carved out a piece of her and left it raw.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, wiping at her cheeks hastily. She hadn't even realized she was crying until her fingertips came away damp. "Five minutes left on my break, and that's what my brain comes up with? Really?"

Icarus leaned back against the crate, staring up at the ceiling as she took a deep, shuddering breath. The dream had been vivid—too vivid. Every detail of the operating room, the chaotic shouts, and the image of the man lying on the table felt real enough to make her stomach churn. And that suit in the corner… the way it had loomed, watching, as if it had a presence all its own. It sent a chill down her spine even now.

She laughed bitterly to herself, a hollow sound that echoed faintly in the empty hangar. "Outlandish doesn't even begin to cover it," she muttered. "What's next? Talking armor?"

Her gaze drifted to the far end of the hangar, where the remains of her Falcon sat in a half-dismantled state. The mechanics had told her it was a miracle she'd made it back at all, let alone in one piece. The sight of the scorched and battered craft brought back another wave of emotions—grief, anger, guilt—all tied to one name.

Eilífr.

Her hand tightened into a fist against her knee. No matter how hard she tried to focus on the present, her mind always circled back to him. His towering figure, his calm voice, his unyielding determination. The way he'd yanked her ejector lever and disappeared into the smoke without a second thought.

Her voice wavered as she spoke softly to herself, "You'd better still be out there, you bastard."

The timer on her comm pinged, signaling the end of her break. Icarus sighed heavily, dragging herself to her feet and brushing off the dust from her flight suit. She glanced at the Falcon one last time, her fingers brushing against the dog tag that hung around her neck—a simple keepsake she'd refused to part with since that day.

"Back to work," she murmured, forcing herself to move. But as she walked away, the dream lingered in the back of her mind, a haunting reminder of something she couldn't quite name. Something that felt less like imagination and more like a warning.