The chamber within Vaelora's dreadnought—Voidspire—was dim, illuminated only by the pulsing, low violet glow of void-crystals embedded along the obsidian walls. At the center stood six towering crypt-cylinders exhaling frost, their black surfaces etched with Mahasimu command sigils and reinforced psionic locks. A single gesture from Vaelora had summoned the arrival of her most recent harvest—Tamun, Je'ka, Ruthen, and Esh'tal.
Vaelora stood with her arms behind her back, clad in her full battle robe of dark silk-threaded armor, silver inlay reflecting the faint light. Her expression was unreadable, her violet eyes flickering to the stasis crypts, then to the Luminary beside her—tall, thin, and expressionless behind a mask of voidsteel, his breath like steam in the cold chamber.
With no words exchanged, the Luminary merely inclined his head.
Immediately, the lowly slaves surrounding the stasis crypts scrambled into motion, dragging incense braziers, runeslates, and psionic pulse rods into place. They chanted ritual words without understanding them—little more than trained noise—yet effective. One trembling slave reached forward and touched Esh'tal's bindings to align the locks.
The moment his skin brushed the shimmering, iridescent chitin of the Thal'Karn, Esh'tal twitched. A deep, resonant growl echoed through the chamber. The slave shrieked and stumbled back.
In a blur, the Luminary raised his whip—a barbed tendril of darklight—and struck. The slave hit the floor with a sickening crack, blood smearing across the polished black stone. He dared not cry out. The Luminary leaned over him with eerie silence.
"Clean it," came the command in a whisper.
The slave, shaking violently, used his torn sleeve and bleeding hand to wipe his own blood from the floor.
Vaelora said nothing. Her eyes stayed locked on the twins' awakening crypts. Je'ka stirred first, his body slowly moving in the thick vapor, eyes wide, before Tamun's did the same. Ruthen's crypt hissed last. As the locks disengaged with a final chime, she stepped forward, the frost melting off her ritual-scarred body, steam rising from her armored form. Her neural gauntlet flexed with power.
Ruthen knelt silently. "Mission completed. Phase three delay caused by Inferno squad intervention. Final target escaped. All key command nodes were disabled prior to exfiltration."
Vaelora merely nodded, her lips barely moving. "Acceptable."
She turned back to the looming viewport and dismissed them with a slow wave of her hand.
The trio turned without question, escorted back into the deeper vessel halls by silent Luminaries.
Vaelora remained, staring out at the carnage beyond—Venter aflame beneath the stars, great defense pylons falling to Admiral Kia's dread assault, the screams of orbital fire echoing through the void. Her reflection shimmered across the window, a goddess among warring ants.
"Even lowly slaves," she whispered to herself, "are useful to gods."
Her gaze drifted once more to the stasis bay doors. "Especially these two."
She'd give them a title—Twin Heads of the Lesser Attendants. It was meaningless politically, but it would give the others something to whisper about, to envy, to fear.
And fear was her greatest servant.
Scene Shift: Northern Venter, Zelith Stronghold Citadel
Commander Vekra leaned heavily against a shattered command console, his breathing ragged beneath his armored helm. Admiral Tyven entered the ruined war room with a squad of guard-drones in tow, his face pale and streaked with smoke. Outside, artillery rumbled like the beating heart of a dying world.
"We've lost thirty percent of orbital supremacy," Tyven reported grimly. "That Mahasimu admiral… Kia, she is relentless."
Vekra didn't respond right away. He stared at a holo-map of the surface, still active on the sputtering terminal. "The attack was never about conquering Venter… not directly."
Tyven raised an eyebrow. "Then what?"
Before Vekra could answer, the main doors hissed open and Praetor Solan entered. The storm-beaten robes of the Praetorium still clung to his tall frame. Behind his helm, his expression was unreadable—but Vekra could see the dread in his posture. Solan had never been a man to show emotion.
Solan approached slowly, a relic pendant hanging around his neck—the Crypt Key, its core pulsing faintly.
"The signal was sent," he said quietly.
Tyven paled. "No…"
"We had no choice," Vekra whispered.
Solan's eyes locked on Tyven. "I will remain. The council… the High General Vrakhar… they need you both at the fleet. They ordered the regrouping of all available vessels and survivors."
Tyven's voice faltered. "And you'll—"
"I will wait," Solan interrupted coldly. "And when the time comes, I will open the Great Crypt."
No one spoke. Somewhere in the distance, a structure collapsed with a roar.
Solan moved past them silently, heading toward the ancient sealed tunnel at the mountain's base—where carvings told tales of gods and monstrosities long buried. He stood alone, the wind howling behind him, a single figure at the edge of history.
He placed his hand on the blackstone gate.
And waited.