Thyresia Geldonna, Fourth Executor of the Abidan, sighed as she exited the vivid blue portal of The Way and descended to the surface of Sanctum. This last mission had been... taxing. It felt like it had been decades since she had an easy one. She could check her presence for the exact answer, but she was certain she didn't want to know. What she wouldn't give for a meteor impact or a plague, or even just a nice villain to destroy.
A voice sounded in her head.
"Executor Alpha Four. Sector Control has detected your presence in Sanctum. Present yourself your debriefing immediately or you will be found in contempt of your oaths."
Thyresia sighed again and whisked herself away towards the stout grey building that housed the limited physical needs of the Executor Program. It's diminutive nature didn't insult her nearly so much as the gaudy gold of the Hall of Justice did, but the slight was certainly intentional. The Court had not held back in making their dissatisfaction with her and her colleagues apparent.
Colleague, she mentally corrected. It was just her and Daruman left. Phestos had left to resume control of his home Iteration off in the remote branch of the Way he had ascended from, Charisse had quit, and Evarin had destroyed his last assignment—before being destroyed in turn. Within the safety of her own mind Thyresia could admit that she couldn't blame any of them for their decisions. Not anymore.
If her home had been in a more distant branch of the Way, she might have considered returning there herself. She didn't necessarily desire to be worshipped as a Goddess the way she was certain to be were she to descend nearly four centuries after uniting her people, but it certainly had an appeal when compared to her current treatment.
The pair of Hounds waiting to debrief her radiated contempt and irritation. Whether at her failure to immediately appear within the building upon her arrival or just in reaction to her appearance at all, she didn't care. Her unpredictability within Fate meant the debrief teams needed to be on call at all moments, even when missions could last years at a time. It was the consequence of the decisions they had made after Charisse, the restrictions they had placed upon them. They were welcome to be as grumpy as they liked.
Her two handlers of the day didn't speak as they went to work strapping her into the complex artifact that would extract her memories of the nine local years she had spent on Iteration 614 for dissection and examination. She didn't break the silence either—she had nothing to say.
One of the Hounds vanished further into the complex, her presence in his grasp. It would be scanned of all data on the fluctuations of Fate engendered by her actions in order to bring the network as a whole up to date on prediction indicators. Thyresia would have to purge it of manipulated directives when they returned it, as she always did.
For now, she closed her eyes and tuned out the world and the buzzing and humming of the constructs. It could take hours or days for them to pick apart and critique every decision she had made and to confirm that the new track of Fate Scour had landed on was up to their standards. Not that she particularly cared for their judgments.
Her opinion was unfortunately not considered as the Hound monitoring her memories began questioning and berating her regarding her actions of Scour. Part of her mind remained focused, answering the interrogation with the calm and poise befitting an empress, but the rest drifted.
A thread of Fate opened to Thyresia and she watched with pleasure as a version of herself speared the odious man through the heart with her trident before flinging his body onto the street outside. She particularly enjoyed the look of shock on his face in this future and committed it to memory before dismissing the vision. Dozens of additional possibilities opened up to her mind as she considered all the ways she could shut the odious man up for good.
She always cut off the visions before they progressed too far. This was her secret little game of stress relief, and it would spoil the fun to watch herself get captured or killed by one of the Judges. In front of her, the Hound continued his "evaluation" of all her many supposed inadequacies and mistakes.
It was hard to take a pencil pushing Hound like him seriously, he wouldn't have survived a tenth of the missions she had been on and would have failed on half of any he did survive. It was easy to judge a decision from the safety of Sanctum and from the perspective of hindsight, it was a different story in the moment, when billions of lives were on the line.
Another thread of Fate opened up where she ripped his spine out and flung it through a portal to land at Makiel's feet. Before her, the man continued his supposed debrief without a flicker of recognition or acknowledgment, as those like him always did. It was the reason they distrusted her and the others so much. Blind spots. They had all become blind spots in the Abidan's sight and they hated it, Makiel and the Hounds most of all.
"Is something funny Alpha Four?" He asked suddenly. "Because my calculations show that you could have stabilized Iteration 614 within a mere three months local time. While you were busy playing around, an additional 500 million people died on Iteration 324, and I don't think that's a laughing matter."
The ghost of a smirk that had graced her mouth at the obliviousness of her minder twisted into a sneer. Scour had been full of corruption of the mortal kind. Its leaders boldly marching their world towards its certain destruction just for the sake of just a little more power. Each of them intending to ascend beyond the consequences of their actions at the last possible moment. It had been a delicate balance to bring its people out of the oppression they had grown used to. Executing the powerful had only been the start. The systems in place were simply too entrenched for that to be enough. If she had left so quickly, the world would have tipped back to the edge of oblivion within half a century, rather than the six millennia of stability she had established.
She pulled more of herself back into her mind, not trusting her ability to keep her stress relief grounded in mere possibility if she had to address the man with the full weight of her emotions and thoughts. What remained relayed her reasoning with calm and cool logic.
The Hound made a sound of disgust anyway.
"This is why they're replacing you relics. You're sloppy and inefficient and dangerous. There are a thousand of the new guys, all of them tied directly to Makiel and the Hounds by binding constructs. No more unexpected deviations, no more surprises, no more treason. Just order."
Internally, Thyresia was intrigued, but nothing of her thoughts showed on her placid face. The Hound scoffed again, before continuing.
"You know, they aren't even going to be called Executors anymore. That name will die with you and Alpha Five. The Vroshir will be everything that you lot never were, and the Way will be better for it. Just you wait."
A culmination of multiple canon pieces of lore into one headcanon.
The Fourth Executor perished while attacking the Abidan for "reasons that were not clear" which is 100% bullshit.
The Second Generation of Executors were raised from birth and designed to be competent and loyal.
"The First Generation of Vroshir had worked for the Abidan long ago" and held a grudge against the Abidan and the Court of Seven.
The headcanon/fic idea? The First Generation of Vroshir, the First Generation of Silverlords, and the Second Generation of Executors were the same group of people, and their Silver Crown constructs were designed to enforce their actions according to the Will of the Court. The Fourth Executor led her attack on the Abidan to break the Vroshir of this control.
