The Temple of Echoing Minds, pulsing within the armored core of the Giza Mtuji, was where thought walked beside divinity. Its walls shimmered with psionic energy, crafted from the minds of extinct prophets and the bones of surrendered worlds. Here, Shailia, the Empire's living conduit, communed with higher truth.
Whisperer Vaelora entered in silence, her armor whispering with each step. She did not bow—only paused to regard the entity upon the psionic throne, veiled in strands of living thread and bathed in cold blue glow.
Flanking her like shadows were Tamun and Je'ka, her personal attendants—no more than gilded chattel, lowborn creatures elevated just high enough to kneel at her side. Their lean forms bore the subdermal sigils of servitude, faintly glowing beneath ceremonial wraps. Marked, but not free.
"Whisperer," Shailia murmured, not with lips but through the mind. "The war sharpens. Speak."
Vaelora inclined her head. "The Zelith bleed, but erratically. To break a spine, one must aim for the neck—not merely slash at the limbs. We must infiltrate their rituals, fracture their belief. Use those beneath us—those like these—to burrow deep."
She gestured casually toward her two kneeling servants.
"Slaves, attendants, disposable flesh. The whispers bend them, mold them. Let them serve not just labor, but intent."
Shailia turned her veiled gaze to the twins. "And these two?"
"Tools," Vaelora replied flatly. "Obedient. Conditioned. Born from lesser stock, but shaped by my hand."
Tamun, emboldened by proximity to his mistress, dared to lift his eyes.
"If we are tools," he said slowly, "then let us strike deep."
A pause followed. The room chilled.
Shailia's voice cut through the silence like a cold scalpel.
"Silence your slave mouth," she hissed—not in rage, but pure contempt. "You are not here to think."
Tamun froze, swallowing whatever heat remained in his throat. Je'ka's head bowed deeper in shame beside him.
Vaelora's expression barely flickered. "Forgive his ignorance, Oracle. He is not trained to speak."
"Then train him," Shailia replied, dismissing them with a mental wave. "And be sure all flesh beneath your command knows when to serve and when to shut up."
Hangar Bay – Voidspire, Flagship of Whisperer Vaelora
The legions assembled with silent efficiency, lines of armored psy-warriors standing in perfect formation within the vast hangar of the Voidspire. Ritual banners of the Deep Empire swayed from the ceiling, catching the faint tremors of the ship's hum as launch countdown ticked downward.
At the front stood Vaelora, unmoved, regal and terrifying in her unblinking composure.
Tamun and Je'ka knelt before her in chains of light—not physical, but projected restraints used for ceremony and discipline.
She turned to Captain Nyrek, her enforcer, his armor inked with old scars and litanies of punishment.
"One of my attendants forgot his place," Vaelora said, voice cold and public. "In the presence of the Oracle, no less."
Tamun dared not lift his head. He trembled—not from fear of death, but from the unbearable weight of disgrace.
"Correct him," she ordered.
Nyrek nodded. "In full view?"
"In full view."
The legion parted. A circle formed.
Nyrek uncoiled the punishment lash, its threads tipped with psychic stingers—designed not just to wound, but to shame. To imprint fear in those who watched.
Tamun's back was bared. His hands were chained to the platform floor.
Crack. The first strike drew a sharp breath from him—but no cry. The rune burned black across his spine.
Crack. Blood misted. Je'ka looked away, trembling, but dared not move.
Crack. Flesh tore.
The legion did not blink. They absorbed the message.
Vaelora stepped forward at the end of the ceremony, casting a long shadow over Tamun's collapsed form.
"Discipline," she said to them all, "is not cruelty. It is clarity. These things," she gestured at Tamun and Je'ka, "are useful. But they are not equal. Let no one mistake utility for elevation."
She turned, robe trailing behind her like the closing curtain of a funeral rite.
"Ready the Voidspire. We depart for the Venter front."
As the engines ignited and the massive dreadnought slipped away from the Giza Mtuji, Tamun was dragged silently from the platform—branded, broken, and, above all, disciplined.