The twin suns of Myr'Vara rose over the elegant towers and spiraling crystalline domes of its capital—bathed in a vermilion-gold light, like celestial fire warming a doomed paradise. Vaelora stood silently at the viewport, her expression unreadable. The awe of the city stretched before her—a place of serene splendor on the verge of annihilation.
She turned to High General Vrakhar, her voice calm, sharp as a blade hidden in silk.
"It is the third cycle, Vrakhar. What is your decision—do you fight… or do you surrender?"
Vrakhar didn't hesitate long. He turned to face her fully, planting his feet like a monument to defiance.
"We will always fight."
Kal'mor-Zai, unflinching, raised his fist and beat his chest once—a gesture of unshakable defiance. The heavy clang echoed across the Nexus like a war drum sounding the end of peace.
Vaelora gave a slight nod and turned back to the viewport.
"Very well."
But then her tone shifted. Darker. Colder.
"Kal'mor-Zai. Shael'Ryn. Eleena will be coming for you. She has sworn it—vowed to claim a true seer… or your half-breed blood, in her wrath."
As if remembering something, she lifted a hand and pressed a single rune on the holo console.
A towering visual of Dark Traya erupted into being, casting long shadows through the chamber. Ancient darkness slithered from the image, brushing against every soul like fingers dipped in oblivion. The pressure made even the seers still, though unbowed.
Her voice spilled out like decayed silk:
"Ah… these are the warriors you mentioned, Vaelora? Discard the Thalor… I'm only interested in them."
She fixed her molten gaze upon Kal'mor-Zai and Shael'Ryn.
"I haven't seen a seer in millions of years. Your pathetic race still hides behind masks… amusing. And you, hybrid… fascinating. I will study your thoughts before I rip them apart."
She paused, lips curling into a grotesque grin.
"Tell your precious Aurum to remember the screams of Nareth. I still feed on their souls."
Vaelora didn't blink.
"Star Lord, we must annihilate another race." Her tone was glacial, soaked in murder.
Traya's smile twisted into monstrous delight.
"That was the only way it could be."
Then, with a snap of static, the darkness evaporated. Everyone exhaled. Only the seers had not been touched.
Vaelora turned to the others.
"Prepare yourselves."
She looked to Commander Nyrek and gave a silent signal. A flash of light enveloped them—and in the blink of an eye, they reappeared at the entrance gate of Myr'Vara. Shock silenced them—except Kal'mor-Zai, who had long known of the Mahasimu's ancient teleportation rites.
A transport awaited to ferry them back to the palace. The ride was silent, the air thick with tension and impending war.
Upon arrival, Vrakhar wasted no time. He dispatched a runner to summon the Zelith High Council. Within the hour, three of its remaining members convened in the obsidian chamber:
High Strategos Malerion, a stern old warrior.
Scribe Wythona, an archivist and speaker for the Dead Codices.
Councilor Drevik Varn, the youngest but most adaptable, descended from the exiled houses of Zareth.
Malerion spat.
"We defend here. The capital must not fall. Every blade, every bolt, every drop of blood on this soil shall serve its purpose."
Wythona shook her head.
"No. A fragment of the empire must endure. We should begin retreating civilians and knowledge to Core-World Khos‑VIII. Let Myr'Vara become the monument it was always meant to be."
Drevik spoke last.
"A two-pronged doctrine. Hold the capital. Evacuate the future."
Kal'mor-Zai gave command of the Faceless legions to Shael'Ryn. "Hold them steady. Await my return."
He departed, already deep in communion with the Blind One.
Back at the Fortress Station, Kal'mor-Zai arrived swiftly, walking through the vaulted chambers to the Seers' Council Hall. The five Faceless Kings were already present—looming, ancient beings cloaked in mystery.
Without speaking, Kal'mor-Zai placed his hand upon the mind-shard altar and projected the entire journey from Myr'Vara to the Nexus: Vaelora's words, Traya's threats, Aurum's name invoked.
A silence gripped the chamber.
Then the Second Mid Sister stood, her voice trembling with fury.
"This is appalling. How dare she mock our Firstborn?"
Faceless King I:1-Aurum, previously motionless, stirred. **Memories flooded him—**memories of fire, of screaming children, of being skinned alive and left in the void. A shattered world. The seers had found him like a wraith—mad with grief, wrapped in the blood of his kin.
They had masked him.
They had given him purpose.
He stood now, voice deep, controlled—but trembling with vengeance.
"May I speak?"
The Blind One, ancient and enthroned at the edge of the realm of time, opened his lidless eye.
"You may, my child."
Aurum's voice shook the room:
"I seek vengeance in the name of my denounced race. I will be the blade that beheads Traya. This… I vow."
His aura erupted, bloodlust thick and wrathful, blanketing the chamber. Even the marble cracked beneath him. The seers' circles shimmered—but his hate could not pierce them.
The Blind One rose, each step a tremor of cosmic weight. He approached Aurum and placed a hand upon his forehead.
"You are my precious firstborn faceless child. I grant you the form of terror—return to the skin you once wore."
A shimmer.
A crack.
A scream of ancient fire.
Aurum's form shattered, revealing the demon within—red-skinned, horned, wrapped in flowing red-black armor, eyes searing with primal rage. His aura burst, and even the other kings collapsed to their knees.
"Let us end this, Traya."
ELSEWHERE
Far from Myr'Vara, a dark green vessel descended silently over a barren desert world. The Children of Ralkesh disembarked—smaller than humans, their skin like bark, eyes ageless.
Leader Drong knelt, placing a hand upon the sand. The spire beneath answered with a mechanical groan.
"The earth obeyeth."
Frode, his second, spoke next—her cloak flapping in the wind.
"The broken seers trail us, cousin. Hath thou seen the same dream?"
"Aye," Drong replied, voice low.
"It mattereth not. The King hath sent us forth. The object must be ours ere the Silent Ones arrive. The dream commandeth it."
With that, the spire groaned open, and the Children of Ralkesh descended—into shadow, prophecy, and war.