The screaming never stopped.
The Kirell—hunched, ragged, and trembling—were herded in long, agonizing lines beneath the shadow of Gharar's ashen sky. Umbari enforcers, clad in obsidian-plated armor and guided by biometric chains, barked orders in the piercing tongue of the Empire. Dissent was answered with beatings. Collapse was met with neural lashes. And submission was rewarded with temporary silence.
The once-free Kirell now faced the horrifying monotony of eternal punishment: sulfuric mines, flesh-labor pits, and endless rites of subjugation. Their sorrow fed the planet itself—Gharar drank despair like sacred nectar. Here, even hope was heresy.
Above this landscape of anguish, Queen Suama's mothership, the Giza Mtuji, loomed like a celestial judgment. Inside, discipline reigned in silence, awaiting the arrival of the next significant player.
Summons from the Throne of Thorns
Royal Guard Amani moved like a blade unsheathed—elegant, swift, and radiating deadly intent. Her polished obsidian armor caught no light as she strode down the central chamber hall toward Vaelora.
"The Queen requests your presence at the citadel. Now," Amani stated with precise formality.
Vaelora turned calmly, her two Kirell servants flanking her in silence. They bore the markings of personal servitude—subtle runes etched into their forearms, glowing faintly.
As they arrived at the citadel gates, two towering Royal Custodians crossed their halberds. "Only the Whisperer may pass," one declared flatly.
Before Vaelora could respond, Queen Suama's voice, low and regal, echoed through the inner gates: "Allow her. And her shadows."
The doors hissed open.
Inside the throne chamber, cold jade fire danced along braziers of bone. Queen Suama sat draped in interwoven silks of mourning and command, her aura flaring subtly as her gaze shifted from Vaelora to the two small, quivering attendants.
"These… are yours?" the Queen asked, her voice carrying the weight of millennia.
Vaelora bowed deeply. "Yes, my Queen. I claimed them on Darcile. They are… obedient."
Queen Suama narrowed her eyes, intrigued. "And why would the Whisperer of the Deep Empire walk among ants?"
Vaelora's smile was quiet, unreadable. "Even ants, when guided, may gnaw the roots of kingdoms. I find use in their desperation."
Suama laughed once—low and sharp like a drawn blade. "We shall see. For their sake… let your ants not displease me."
Blood and Flame: The Zelith Invasion Begins
Far from Gharar, across the stars where void-rifts split reality like glass, Admiral Kia stood at the prow of her flagship, the Spear of Umbara.
The skies above the Zelith border world Raluven-4 were filled with descending hellfire.
Millions of transport vessels screamed toward the surface like falling suns. Their hulls shimmered with darklight shielding as they broke through the atmosphere. Within each drop, waves of Shadowscourge warriors roared with bloodlust, eager to raze, burn, and conquer. Cities were flattened before they could cry for help. Resistance was buried beneath the treads of terror.
Admiral Kia watched in cold silence, arms crossed.
"Leave no soul unmarked," she instructed. "Let them understand the first lesson of submission."
From her command platform, she coordinated orbital strikes and troop landings, hunting every flicker of resistance. The invasion was total. Zelith strongholds crumbled like ancient ruins. Every region taken brought her closer to the heart of the system—and closer to the ultimate vengeance for Serath's rescue.
She knew General Kizito was en route. She welcomed his fire, but this—this first storm—was hers alone.