In the bowels of the Zelith command base beneath Venter's scorched skyline, the twins were being escorted by armored members of the Inferno Squad—an elite unit of zealots shrouded in obsidian-red armor, their visors etched with runic fire, their presence like a wound in the atmosphere. The twins had tried to resist, to reason, to delay. It didn't matter. The Inferno Squad took orders from no one but High General Vrakhar and the will of the flame.
Tamun and Je'ka were forced down the black-iron corridors, surrounded by twitching surveillance drones and plasma wardens. As the reinforced door to the interrogation chamber hissed open, revealing a cold seat beneath searing lumen-lights and instruments better suited for flaying truth from bone than simple questioning…
…the shadows broke.
Four containment pods aboard the stealth vessel exploded outward in shrieking bursts of steam and black mist. The Scourgehounds, beasts of war crafted by Mahasimu flesh-wrights, emerged howling—each one a malformed nightmare of serrated carapace, blade-limbs that shimmered with antimatter tension, and faces split with mouths that dripped with psionic toxin. They leapt from the vessel like unleashed omens and tore into the outer perimeter.
The first line of Zelith sentries didn't scream long.
Sirens shrieked across the command base.
The Inferno Squad's helmets flared with incoming alerts before the twins even touched the interrogation chair. The squad leader, Commander Sael'Vek, barked an order "Lock them down!" but the chamber erupted as explosions rocked the base. The twins ducked instinctively as the door buckled and flame washed inward. Smoke and panic blurred all sound.
From high above on the command tower, Elder Xiran watched the chaos unfold.
He was ancient, regal, his golden armor wreathed in flowing threads of psychic light. His eyes narrowed as the beasts broke into the lower sanctums. Something was wrong. This was no ordinary breach it was precision.
With a snap of thought, he drew his blade a crescent fang of starlight and descended.
Ruthen's Orchestration
Inside the shadows of a collapsed vault near the old tram tunnels, Ruthen emerged like a wrath given form. Her bonded neural gauntlet throbbed with bio-electric signals, pulsing as she directed Esh'tal to sow deeper confusion across the command post. Her face—scarred, gritted, alive with bloodthirst—was alight with focused madness. She had waited for this.
Her voice was low, rasping into her encrypted comms:
"Tamun. Je'ka. Now. Move to Node Twelve. Purge the failsafes. You shut their eyes… I'll tear out their heart."
"Understood," came Je'ka's reply. Tamun remained silent—focused, burning with unvoiced fear and loyalty.
Ruthen slipped deeper into the combat storm, her frame weaving between confused Zelith fireteams. Her Scourgehounds danced ahead, severing limbs, ripping apart armored troopers like paper husks. She saw Sael'Vek chasing them, orders radiating from his helm in encrypted bursts. They were fast. Trained. But Ruthen was old shadow—crafted for one thing: destruction with meaning.
Elder Xiran struck down from above like a falling sun.
His blade cleaved one of the Scourgehounds in half. The creature screamed in binary agony and folded inward on itself, consumed by its own psychic charge. Ruthen's eyes locked with his across the battlefield.
She charged.
Their blades met with a crash of gravity-defying sparks. Ruthen's movements were brutal, honed by Mahasimu blood rites. Xiran was elegant, ancient—but not soft. Their duel carved scars into the deck plating as soldiers gave them wide berth, caught in the awe of gods clashing.
But Ruthen soon understood.
She would not win.
Xiran's power pulsed deeper than she anticipated—his soul woven with ancestral fire. As her side bled and her strikes grew slower, she hissed something half-snarl, half-respect:
"You're not ready for what's coming…"
And vanished in a cloud of phasing shadow-dust.
The Final Sequence
Tamun and Je'ka reached the command node as detonations shook the lower levels. Je'ka plunged her hand into the control matrix while Tamun provided cover, pulse-carbine clutched in sweaty hands.
"Defense grid… offline," Je'ka whispered.
The planetary network flickered—and died.
Above them, Mahasimu fleets detected the pulse and began repositioning in orbit.
Ruthen limped into the shadows near the hangar deck, blood dripping from her jawline, as Esh'tal covered her flank. Behind her, the last of the surviving Scourgehounds collapsed in a heap of steaming viscera, but the damage was done.
Tamun and Je'ka arrived at the stealth vessel moments later, breath heaving, armor scuffed and eyes wide with what they had done.
Ruthen didn't speak. She only nodded and activated the recall.
As the vessel lifted off into the clouds, flames and collapsing towers mirrored their silent departure. Elder Xiran stood beneath the rising smoke, his mind calculating, his heart burning.
He knew.
The war was only beginning.
And the Empire of Mahasimu had just ripped open Venter's throat.