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The Black Garden was a place without true time, where thought and terrain intertwined. It was a resting place of dreams, and the beginning of nightmares. Now, it served as the beginning, of something old, something wrong.
It all began with a whisper. Illegible.
One without words. Of a hollow nature, filled with only hunger, with only malice. The whispers continued to echo.
Carried on a wind that had no source, it drifted through the garden, like pollen. Brushing across petal and stone, root and circuit—changing things. Not just their shape, but their very nature.
The Garden trembled at the voice. Beings of rock and stone began to tremble. Almost as if brought to life. Centuries had passed, since dust on their bodies had scattered, now their moss covered frames stirred, beckoned by a voice, of the one they revered.
The Vex of Sol Divisive had awakened.
Their emergence was not mechanical—it was ritual. They rose from the flower-thick soil in silent unison, as if exhumed by memory itself. Red blossoms of Asphodelia shimmered in the lightless sky, and beneath them, vast pulsing bulbs unfurled into broad platform leaves with thunderous whumps, triggered by their passage.
Then, they kneeled.
Ahead of them was a structure formed of chrome and bone, built in worship—not of logic—but of the unknowable. To the them, the Garden was not a location. It was a proving ground of identity. A question of survival.
Because when the voice beyond beckoned, they submitted.
And now, it was listening.
Whispers thickened. They wrapped themselves around the Progeny's frames, seeding thoughts into old minds. The air grew heavy with meaning, old and alien. Grammar from distant tongues bent the environment itself, bending petals and fractals alike.
At the centre of the Garden, atop the structures of the Vex, the world condensed into a black fog. Not ethereal, but dark and heavy. It twisted into forms, eventually settling into one resembling a heart.
Then, it listened. For a hum. Searching the Sol System, It listened, to the Traveler. Sensing that the Light had awakened, the heart pulsed.
Not a heartbeat. Not life.
A siphon.
Darkness that did not oppose Light, but fed on it. Learned from it.
The Garden responded. Vines slithered toward the core. Stone arched backward like a spine pulled into prayer. The Sol Divisive began to sing, not in sound, but in will. Their hymn was not to reshape the Garden—but to be reshaped by it.
And in that sacred recursion, the Heart pulsed again.
Outside the Garden, the Traveler gleamed with new light.
The heart continued to beat, according to the will of the voice. Because, as long as there was light, there was darkness.
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[Tower, Last City]
Far above the waking streets of the City, nestled in the quiet shade of the Tower's highest spire, the Speaker stood still.
Below him, the Plaza stirred with life. New Guardians had arrived. Fresh from the Cosmodrome, light still raw around their edges, uncertain but unbroken. Their Ghosts hummed softly, flitting from vendor to vendor, pinging data, verifying registries. Sparks of laughter mixed with confused chatter—voices unused to purpose now kindled by it.
The Speaker, cloaked in silence, watched.
He had seen many awakenings. Thousands of lights. But this time, something had changed.
He felt it—not in words or logic, but in the slow shiver of the air around the Traveler. In the hum beneath his feet. The rhythm of the City had changed. The wind no longer blew westward from the cliffs. It circled. It gathered.
And the Traveler… thrummed.
It wasn't a song, not as mortals heard it. But it vibrated through reality. Not loud, but deep.
The Speaker listened. Eventually, the Traveler seemed to still, as if it had held its breath. The Speaker frowned, a sensation crawled across his bones—unmistakable, ancient.
'Opposition.'
He stepped away from the balcony, moving toward the Vanguard chamber with measured steps. The marble echoed underfoot like a countdown.
Ikorra, Zavala, and Cayde were already there. The table in the centre projected mission logs, Ghost transcripts, patrol updates. The Vanguard were busy discussing a new plan of action. Spreading their scouts across the Sol system.
Then, the mechanical gates hissed and slid open. The Speaker walked inside, observing them in the flow of work. He thought to speak, but then paused.
Circling around the table, he observed their efforts, and silently he prayed that whatever was to come, would be easier.
"Something new, has begun" the Speaker began, voice low but even. "The Traveler shines bright. Brighter than it has in decades."
The Vanguard stopped, turning towards him.
"That's good news, isn't it? More shine, less dyin." Cayde asked, arms crossed, but eyes alert.
The Speaker nodded, thoughtfully. Then replied in a soft voice, "Perhaps. But the Light never grows alone."
Zavala turned toward him, his forehead creased as a grim thought bloomed in his mind, "Is the dark finally moving?"
"I do not know," the Speaker replied. "Our enemy, is ancient. Perhaps, older than the world itself. To try and predict it is a fool's task." He looked toward Ikora. "But history often repeats itself. With Humanity at its golden age, the collapse almost destroyed us. Now, what do you think the enemy will do at the brink of a new era."
Ikorra's eyes met his, calm but sharp. "Grow stronger." she admitted. "Wherever the enemy is, they're watching. Preparing."
"Yes. We must not forget. The Traveler grows strong." the Speaker continued. "But so too does its shadow. That is the rule, and the curse."
He turned, pacing the room with deliberate care. "Light is a beacon, but also a signal. A call. The moment we begin to reclaim the Cosmodrome, the moment new Ghosts find fresh sparks—something else stirs"
"What are you suggesting?" Zavala asked. "That we slow down? Withhold the Light from those who need it?"
"No. Never," the Speaker replied. "But understand: The enemy returns not in spite of the Traveler's awakening, but because of it. Light does not banish the Dark—it necessitates it."
A quiet hung in the room like fog.
Finally, Zavala spoke, voice steady. "Then we prepare. We double our forces. We train every new Light. No one goes into the wild alone."
"I agree," Ikorra added. "The Cosmodrome is still crawling with Devil remnants. And we'll need a way off Earth soon. The new Jumpships don't have a functioning warp drive... the city doesn't have any spares either. We need to find one soon."
"Hey if that's the case, House of Devils has a cache hidden outside the Steppes, they're probably hiding a few in there." Cayde said, already tapping through data on the table. "If we time it right, we can slip in under their radar."
"Make the arrangements," Zavala ordered. "Within the week."
The Speaker nodded, but said nothing more. His eyes returned to the window, back to the sky, where the Traveler loomed in brilliant silence.
He couldn't help but wonder.
If the Light births heroes... what does the Dark create?
It was an odd question, one he didn't want to answer. But in his heart, he knew that the darkness created monsters.
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[Workshop, Shore]
The Shore was loud with metal.
On this rare occasion, it wasn't the gunfire kind—not today. But the kind that echoed through scaffolding, welding arms, and the deep grunts as anchored frames were hammered and bolted into place.
Void stepped through the haze of plasma torches and solar-powered arc welders, his armour cloaked in drifting particles of salt and rust as he dusted it off.
The old Reef installation they'd repurposed was starting to look like something real. It was no longer just ruins and crates. It was becoming.
"Damn, you really put in the work." He looked around.
Pahanin was in the thick of it, shouting over a data stream into the comms of a Wretch technician. His sleeves were rolled up, grease smeared across one cheek, goggles pressed into his brow like a crown earned through labour, not legacy.
Void approached, carefully stepping over the hundreds of blueprints seemingly deliberately scattered across the floor.
"About time you got back," Pahanin finally said, smirking. "I was starting to think you forgot we had a shop."
Void chuckled, low. "Nearly did. But I did bring good news. New guardians spotted in the Cosmodrome, I made sure to advertise the weapons. We'll have a customer base soon."
Pahanin raised a brow, "Fascinating, how did you even track them down?"
"It's a talent." Void shrugged.
They walked side by side now, weaving through half-welded exo-suits, calibrated servitors, and reinforced platforms dotted with half-assembled weapons.
Fallen crews slaved under Solar-powered generators. Some glanced at Void, most didn't. Cooperation didn't need theatrics here.
They arrived at the main platform. A heavy crate was being lowered by a Grav-lift, revealing rows of empty weapon frames, gleaming under tarp and condensation.
"You really got the hang of this workshop stuff" Void looked back at the Fallen workers, "How'd you even get them in line? I thought you were more of the quiet type."
Pahanin shrugged, "It's a talent."
He crossed his arms. "She's almost ready. We'll have our first batch of field weapons done by the next rotation. High-pressure barrels, no-recoil braces, double-redundant targeting links. Accurized perks."
Void nodded. "Quiet a premium perk list."
Pahanin smiled. "Well, if you wanna compete with the Awoken and the City's manufacturers, you've gotta put in the work."
There was a pause as a distant cry of a Skiff echoed across the broken coast. Void stepped forward, his eyes on the metal serpent emblem they'd welded onto the side of the largest crate. Its fangs curved outward in an elegant spiral.
"Now, for the important question. What are we calling ourselves?" Pahanin asked, coding data into the chips of each weapon.
Void stared at the symbol for a long second. Then:
"VENOM."
Pahanin blinked. "Bold."
Void nodded once. "We sting. We bleed the rot out. And we leave a mark."
Pahanin turned back to the crate and gave it a small knock with his knuckle. "VENOM it is, then."
The moment held. It wasn't grand, not loud. But it was real.
This was more than gear. It was a statement. A war-forged signature scrawled across the battlegrounds no one else would talk about.
Moments later, Pahanin slid back into work. He barked new orders, his voice clear over the din. The forge kept churning.
And Void?
He stood there a moment longer, watching the logo gleam in the dying light.
Legacy doesn't have to be born in the City, he thought. Sometimes it's built from scrap and silence.
Then, as the stars began to shimmer in the dusk, he turned back into the workshop and grabbed a few tools as Pahanin eagerly put him to use.
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