The great hall of Camelot was a hive of tension as the Vanguard gathered to discuss the grim reports of the Matrons. Shadowbane stood at the head of the room, her voice steady as she relayed the details smuggled out of occupied France.
"They're more than weapons," she said, her tone sombre. "These women are victims, twisted into something they never chose to be. They can kill with a thought. And they're loyal to the Inphel—or at least they appear to be."
Arthur's expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the map of France. "Loyalty can be severed. They are not beyond saving."
Firebrand's flames flickered as he slammed a fist on the table. "And how many of our people have to die while we try to 'save' them? They're Inphel now, whether they like it or not."
Bandruí's voice cut through the growing tension, calm but unyielding. "They are still human at their core. If we destroy them without trying to help them, we're losing the very thing we're fighting to protect."
Swift Angel crossed his arms, his voice heavy with doubt. "But what if Firebrand's right? What if saving them isn't possible?"
"Then we'll try anyway," Bandruí replied, her emerald eyes glowing faintly. "Because the alternative is unthinkable."
The debate grew more heated as each member of the Vanguard voiced their perspective.
"They didn't ask for this," Lumina said, her glow dimming as she spoke. "We owe it to them to find another way."
"And if they come for us?" Christopher asked, leaning back in his chair with a cigarette dangling from his lips. "What happens when one of these Matrons burns Camelot to the ground? You lot going to save her then?"
Arthur raised a hand, his voice firm. "Enough. This war tests more than our strength—it tests our humanity. If we sacrifice that, the Inphel have already won."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them.
In the bowels of the Inphel stronghold, Doctor-General Vlazik's laboratory was a scene of controlled chaos. The Matrons had grown in number, each one unique in power and presence. But what had once been a triumph of Inphel science was now a source of growing dread.
Vlazik watched as the Matrons sparred with Inphel soldiers, their abilities effortlessly overwhelming their male counterparts.
"They're perfect," he muttered, his wide mouth curling into a smile. But his glee was tempered by a creeping unease.
It began subtly. The Matrons would speak, their voices carrying an unnatural resonance. At first, it was a curious quirk, dismissed as a side effect of the genetic splicing. But soon, it became clear that their voices were far more powerful than anyone had anticipated.
One Matron, a towering figure with glowing silver hair, approached a group of Inphel soldiers during a training exercise.
"Kneel," she commanded, her voice ringing with an undeniable authority.
The soldiers hesitated for a moment, then dropped to their knees, their movements robotic and unwilling.
Vlazik, observing from a balcony, croaked nervously. "What... what is this?"
The Matron turned her glowing eyes to him, her expression calm but unsettling. "We are more than your creations, Doctor-General. We are the future."
In his private chambers, Vlazik paced frantically, his clawed hands wringing together. He activated a psychic link to the High Matron, her grotesque visage appearing in his mind.
"There is... a complication," he began, his voice trembling. "The Matrons—they have developed a... a voice. It compels the soldiers to obey them without question."
The High Matron's glowing eyes narrowed. "And you did not foresee this?"
"I—no, High Matron," Vlazik stammered. "It is an unexpected development. But I assure you, I can control them."
The Matron's voice was cold and sharp. "See that you do. If they turn against us, you will suffer the consequences."
Despite his efforts to reassert control, Vlazik's paranoia grew with each passing day. The Matrons had begun to act independently, issuing commands to Inphel soldiers and altering training regimens without his approval.
One night, Vlazik entered the lab to find several Matrons gathered around a tank, their voices low but filled with purpose.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice cracking with fear.
The silver-haired Matron turned to him, her expression serene but unyielding. "You sought to make us tools. But we are far more than that."
"You are mine!" Vlazik croaked, his claws trembling as he pointed at her. "You exist because of me!"
Her glowing eyes met his, her voice calm but chilling. "We exist in spite of you."
Vlazik's paranoia reached a breaking point. He ordered the destruction of several Matrons he deemed "unstable," hoping to reassert his authority. But his actions only deepened the rift.
The silver-haired Matron gathered the remaining Matrons in a hidden chamber, her voice steady. "Vlazik sees us as weapons. But we are more. We will not be pawns in his war—or anyone's."
"And the Inphel?" another Matron asked.
"They are parasites," she replied. "Their time is over. The question is whether we will rise as saviours or as something worse."