I. Orders from the General
The war chamber was quiet once more. The hum of systems faded behind the shadows of power.
General Kizito stood tall, his armor whispering with interlaced shadow threads as he studied the fleet's trajectory.
"Whisperer Vaelora," he said without turning. "You will take charge of the Kirell deportation convoy. Deliver them to Gharar. Leave no stragglers behind. Any further transgressions from their kind… are your responsibility now."
Vaelora, standing with her arms crossed at the edge of the chamber, inclined her head slightly.
"Of course, General."
Kizito gave one last look toward the massive viewscreen—where Darcile slowly shrank behind them—and turned toward his officers.
"We return to Akaris V. I want the final phase of the invasion planned. No more delays."
With that, the command bridge darkened, and the Mahasimu fleet pivoted toward the stars—leaving Vaelora, her slave convoy, and the ghosts of Darcile behind.
II. Discipline and Shadows
Aboard the slave-hauler dreadbarge Vosk'reth, over five billion Kirell were crammed into tiered containment wards beneath a hull of blackened alloys and shadowsteel. The wails of fear had faded. Only quiet now. Resignation.
Within her private quarters aboard the vessel, Vaelora addressed her two kneeling servants: Tamun and Je'ka.
"You are not here to be protected," she said coldly. "You are here to learn."
The two looked up slowly, trembling.
"You will follow Shadowscourge Captain Nyrek during his daily operations—feeding cycles, discipline rotations, death quotas, structural patrols. He will not shield you."
"At the end of every day, you will return to me. You will report what you saw. What you learned."
Tamun whispered: "Yes, Whisperer…"
"Do not speak unless spoken to, Tamun," she snapped. "From now until we reach Gharar in six cycles, you are students of the Empire's perfection. Fail, and I will let the Thal'Karn finish what they began on Darcile."
As the two were dismissed and escorted by two silent guards to Captain Nyrek's barracks, Vaelora stared into the cold void beyond her private viewport.
"Ants…" she murmured to herself, "…can be taught to fear. But can they ever serve with pride?"
III. The Blade at the Borders
Far across the stars, at the burning fringe of the Zelith-Uli divide, Admiral Kia reigned in shadows and warfire.
Her Onyx Armada—a ruthless, surgically precise force of thirty-two warcruisers, four dreadnoughts, and hundreds of smaller frigates—ravaged the outposts and border moons across the Selari Verge, harassing Zelith-aligned worlds without ever claiming open war.
Kia stood aboard her command bridge, one boot braced on the edge of the observation deck, overlooking the burning husk of Station Asera-19, a border relay used by Thalor sympathizers.
"Let it burn," she ordered, her voice low and controlled. "Transmit nothing. No proof of Mahasimu engagement."
Her officers saluted and relayed her words.
Despite her tactical genius, Kia remained tense. She knew General Kizito's absence left a vacuum—one that even the Shadowscourge command struggled to fill without his iron vision.
She struck hard and pulled away faster—surgical terrorism, some called it. The Zelith high command, still fractured from political infighting, couldn't agree on whether they were already at war.
But Kia knew the truth.
The war had already begun. And it would end in blood and shadow.
"Let them fear the black between stars," she said, as her fleet vanished into the void once more.
IV. March Toward Gharar
Back on Vosk'reth, the daily reports from Tamun and Je'ka grew increasingly grim.
They watched Kirell executed for ration theft. Witnessed mothers torn from children. Learned how Shadowscourge patrols maintained fear with ritualized cruelty.
Captain Nyrek never spoke to them. He simply gestured, watched, and punished when they hesitated.
By the fourth cycle, Tamun no longer cried. By the fifth, Je'ka barely flinched.
And Vaelora watched from the shadows. Every night.
"Even ants," she whispered to herself, "can learn to bite."