Designation: 77-B – Medic Tier 2, Lurien Ves Solara
Event Logged: The Final Engagement – Operation Null Flame
Recording Date: 0T0L0X1.40
Status: Declassified Testimony
Location: Unknown Battlefield Perimeter on board the Quant (Space? Surface? That boundary no longer mattered)
-
I don’t know where we were. We were fighting in the wound. Above some planet of cracked obsidian, or beneath the burning edges of something older than planets. There was no up or down, only the direction of the enemy and the direction of home.
It didn’t matter.
The sky wasn’t a sky. It was a canvas of screaming light and absolute shadow. A thousand wrecks on fire, ships of our fleet and theirs twisted in silent, screaming arcs of molten metal and frozen time. I saw the Quant, our flagship, barrel-rolling through a field of debris like it was dancing with God, its point-defense cannons stitching patterns of defiance against the void.
FIELD OFFICER’S COMMENDATION ADDENDUM
Submitted by: Commandant Simon 'Johnathan' Paul , 3rd Fleet Command
Reviewed By: Tribunal Archive 7-AO, Post-Conflict Division
Medic Lurien Ves Solara demonstrated exceptional field conduct, courage under sustained metaphysical assault, and tactical leadership in life-saving operations during Operation Null Flame. Under direct thaumaturgical and kinetic fire, and in conditions of zero-command cohesion following the loss of the bridge crew of the frigate Hope's End, Ves Solara maintained triage protocols for 11 standard hours.
She personally saved 17 lives from likely terminal wounds and inspired, through her actions, the formation of an auxiliary medical corps of 145 sentients who, together, rescued 478 sentients and other-coded entities from the wreckage.
Recommended for the Valour Recognition of the 7th Planet of Regression, Gold Tier, with Metaphysical Resilience Cluster.
I don’t know where we were. We were fighting in the wound. Above some planet of cracked obsidian, or beneath the burning edges of something older than planets. There was no up or down, only the direction of the enemy and the direction of home.
It didn’t matter.
The sky wasn’t a sky. It was a canvas of screaming light and absolute shadow. A thousand wrecks on fire, ships of our fleet and theirs twisted in silent, screaming arcs of molten metal and frozen time. I saw the Quant, our flagship, barrel-rolling through a field of debris like it was dancing with God, its point-defense cannons stitching patterns of defiance against the void.
Through the med-bay’s viewport, I could feel people die.
Not just hear their comms cut out - feel the psychic snap as a consciousness was extinguished, a cold spot where a warm life used to be. And still, I worked. My corner of the universe was a triage bay slick with fluids both biological and metaphysical.
Sergeant Malk - he caught a blade meant for me. A mindblade, shimmering with non-light, a thing of pure, weaponized paradox. It didn't cut him; it refuted him.
Sergeant Malk - he caught a blade meant for me. A mindblade, shimmering with non-light, a thing of pure, weaponized paradox. It didn't cut him; it refuted him.
The attack erased his name from all but the most stubborn of memories. I still remember his face, a sudden look of confusion as his own history unraveled. I remember his existence, but I can no longer recall his designation.
Private Orrish, too. Caught shrapnel from a reality-piercing shell. He died smiling, a bloody grin on his face. He pushed his last personal stim-pack into my hand, told me I had prettier eyes than his wife and that I should use it to stay awake.
We shared a half-second of hoarse laughter while his lungs filled with his own blood and failed.
The wounded were piled like desperate prayers - bodies humming with leaking energy, some glowing with soul-fire, some not bodies at all. Just ideas of people held together by the sheer force of their pain and the hope that someone like me would find them.
The wounded were piled like desperate prayers - bodies humming with leaking energy, some glowing with soul-fire, some not bodies at all. Just ideas of people held together by the sheer force of their pain and the hope that someone like me would find them.
And I ran from shape to shape, my boots magnet-locked to the deck, sealing wounds that bled light, patching soldiers suffering from causal burns, whispering the litanies of closing and binding that I hoped the universe would still honor.
Then the shift. A change in pressure across all realities. Like a single, cosmic heartbeat that silenced every other rhythm.
Carceron arrived.
Not in a ship. Not through a gate. There was no flash of translocation or tear in spacetime. One moment he was not there, and the next, he was. A figure standing in the void off the Quant's port bow, a tear in the cosmos shaped like a man.
Then the shift. A change in pressure across all realities. Like a single, cosmic heartbeat that silenced every other rhythm.
Carceron arrived.
Not in a ship. Not through a gate. There was no flash of translocation or tear in spacetime. One moment he was not there, and the next, he was. A figure standing in the void off the Quant's port bow, a tear in the cosmos shaped like a man.
Or maybe a memory of justice, finally returned. He didn’t announce himself with a broadcast. He didn’t shine with holy light. He moved like judgement, and his presence was a truth so absolute that for a moment, all lies and chaos faltered.
Lyrax saw him. I swear, from the heart of his blasphemous command vessel, I felt his shock. He laughed. Or screamed. It was the same sound, really, a grating tear in the fabric of things.
The entire battle paused. For a single, eternal second. Every weapon, every thought, every dying breath was held in suspension, like the universe itself was watching.
And then the two were fire and fury and ancient, terrible skill.
Lyrax, in his prime - a god of ruin, unleashing spells that bent time into nooses, wielding swords that wrote death in elegant, inescapable curves. His consort, Amatrix, moved at his flank, a blur of silver and shadow, cutting through our lines like we were made of dusk, her laughter a melody of pure malice.
But Carceron?
He didn’t fight like a warrior.
Lyrax saw him. I swear, from the heart of his blasphemous command vessel, I felt his shock. He laughed. Or screamed. It was the same sound, really, a grating tear in the fabric of things.
The entire battle paused. For a single, eternal second. Every weapon, every thought, every dying breath was held in suspension, like the universe itself was watching.
And then the two were fire and fury and ancient, terrible skill.
Lyrax, in his prime - a god of ruin, unleashing spells that bent time into nooses, wielding swords that wrote death in elegant, inescapable curves. His consort, Amatrix, moved at his flank, a blur of silver and shadow, cutting through our lines like we were made of dusk, her laughter a melody of pure malice.
But Carceron?
He didn’t fight like a warrior.
He fought like a truth.
His every move was a physical law, his every parry a logical inevitability. When Lyrax cast a lance of pure hatred, Carceron didn't block it; he simply stood in its path, and the hatred found no purchase, unraveling into nothing. He was every story of heroism we prayed was real, made manifest. And he matched Lyrax - blow for blow, flare for spell, soul for soul.
And then - with the battle raging around them like a storm around its eye - he did it.
Summoning the weapon we had all placed our faith in, Carceron drove the Chrono-Salt Lance into Lyrax’s eye. Right into the core of his being, through that black jewel that had watched a thousand worlds burn. And they say - the weapon itself paused. For a microsecond that stretched into an age.
As if the weapon remembered something.
Love.
Then it burned.
Lyrax screamed, a sound that shook the hulls of our ships, but the sound wasn’t rage. It was the agony of pure, undiluted recognition. He was seeing himself, finally, through the lens of every soul he had ever destroyed.
And then he was gone.
Dead. His lifeless body was taken - ripped from our reality by something that looked like an angel born from a dying supernova, a being of light and gravity woven with what once escaped a black hole. Was it was a rescue? Or a capture by a power even older than this war?
We didn’t chase.
And then - with the battle raging around them like a storm around its eye - he did it.
Summoning the weapon we had all placed our faith in, Carceron drove the Chrono-Salt Lance into Lyrax’s eye. Right into the core of his being, through that black jewel that had watched a thousand worlds burn. And they say - the weapon itself paused. For a microsecond that stretched into an age.
As if the weapon remembered something.
Love.
Then it burned.
Lyrax screamed, a sound that shook the hulls of our ships, but the sound wasn’t rage. It was the agony of pure, undiluted recognition. He was seeing himself, finally, through the lens of every soul he had ever destroyed.
And then he was gone.
Dead. His lifeless body was taken - ripped from our reality by something that looked like an angel born from a dying supernova, a being of light and gravity woven with what once escaped a black hole. Was it was a rescue? Or a capture by a power even older than this war?
We didn’t chase.
We wept.
We stared in awe and terror at the empty space where he had been.
Amatrix?
Amatrix?
She screamed his name and turned to flee, but she was too late. The Tachyon Delay Prison Net, launched from three points, snagged her mid-turn. She froze, a perfect statue of fury, wrapped in a shimmering web of moments she had not yet lived.
She's gone now. Held in one of Carceron’s deep-space constructs - Null-Shield Bastion R-9. No one gets in. Or out. They say she still stands there, trapped in the instant before her next thought.
I stitched the last narrative fracture on the last patient as the battle ended.
I stitched the last narrative fracture on the last patient as the battle ended.
The sudden silence was louder than all the explosions that had come before it. My gloves were shredded. My eyes were bloodshot from stims and exhaustion. I know I saved seventeen lives. I will cherish their living eyes till it is my turn to die.
Lurien
-
FIELD OFFICER’S COMMENDATION ADDENDUM
Submitted by: Commandant Simon 'Johnathan' Paul , 3rd Fleet Command
Reviewed By: Tribunal Archive 7-AO, Post-Conflict Division
Medic Lurien Ves Solara demonstrated exceptional field conduct, courage under sustained metaphysical assault, and tactical leadership in life-saving operations during Operation Null Flame. Under direct thaumaturgical and kinetic fire, and in conditions of zero-command cohesion following the loss of the bridge crew of the frigate Hope's End, Ves Solara maintained triage protocols for 11 standard hours.
She personally saved 17 lives from likely terminal wounds and inspired, through her actions, the formation of an auxiliary medical corps of 145 sentients who, together, rescued 478 sentients and other-coded entities from the wreckage.
Recommended for the Valour Recognition of the 7th Planet of Regression, Gold Tier, with Metaphysical Resilience Cluster.