Under the direction of the San’Shyuum known as R’Noh, a Sangheili ranger known as Vil ‘Kthamee recited the oath with the other Sangheili, before setting foot on the corvette Vengeful Vitality, the vessel that would take them to Janjur Qom under the command of the Prophet of Inner Conviction. Vil always found the oath thrilling, but later, if he thought about it too much, he felt uncomfortable; he tasted a bitterness. The Covenant was relatively new, the Writ of Union was crafted not so long ago. And within memory the Sangheili had fought the San’Shyuum. How many of his bloodline, his egg brothers, had died under the blistering, murderous blasts of the Dreadnought? And yet he served these same San’Shyuum. Surrender? It was not surrender—the dishonor of such a thing the Sangheili could not imagine; no, it was alliance—and it was the saving of Sanghelios. Still, here was that bitter taste within his mandibles, when he thought of the fallen dead. Could they but speak, would they denounce the Sangheili as living without nobility?
