Chapter 90: inside Vaelora’s home

Inside the transport's dim hold, General Vrakhar's gaze flickered between the two Kirell attendants and the view ahead. As the vessel hummed with energy, he addressed them.

"Tamun, Je'ka—your names appear in the archives as the reason Venter fell. Do you understand what that means?"

Je'ka's voice, steady and proud, replied: "All under orders of our Mistress Vaelora. It was her strategy."

Vaelora stood by the transparent door, arms crossed. "Yes," she affirmed. "And what of your part?"

Tamun met her silent gaze. "I count what must be counted. We follow her plan—even unto death."

Vrakhar nodded, curiosity tempered by respect. "Very well. Tell me—who bears the most blame? The soldiers, or their command?"

Je'ka exchanged a glance. "The command, always. We are tools of guidance."

Vaelora inclined her head. "Correct."

Their words hung as the transport descended through the Thalor capital's gate: Vrakhar stood flanked by Vaelora, her attendants, the ever-observing War Seer Kal'mor‑Zai, and the silent but ever-aware Shael'Ryn, the hybrid of Seer and Faceless warrior. Waiting at the ramp were Vice General Verka's war-ready forces—billions of Thalor conscripts and armored Faceless warriors. Verka's line of sight halted on Vaelora and her retinue.

"Why are they here?" he asked, voice tight.

Before Vrakhar could reply, Vaelora silenced him with a cool, confident smile. "Come. You will see soon enough."

The massive gates grated open. A hundred meters ahead, the monolith towered in a field of granite and ash. The group moved forward until they came upon a yawning, fathomless pit encircling the structure—its depths swallowed by blackness so complete no light returned.

A low, vibrating ring resonated—Thalor and troops shuddered except for Vaelora, her guards, Vrakhar, Kal'mor‑Zai, and Shael'Ryn.

Vaelora murmured, "Interesting."

Then, as if summoned, the monolith's ramp descended. Darkness crept down its surface. Attendees hesitated—reasonable, for the air felt thick and cold—but Kal'mor‑Zai's maskless expression remained stoic. Shael'Ryn stepped beside him, her inhumanly smooth mask twitching once, eyes never blinking. The ramp slid forward on its own; they stepped on. The oppressive aura clung to their legs. Ahead, the entrance swallowed them.

Inside, the monolith's corridors glowed with black-veined stone and biolight. Eight ancient Shadow Troopers stood at attention. Massive statues of long-dead Star Lords surveyed all. Vaelora led them deeper, snapping the party from the awe.

They passed luminaries in white-veined robes scrubbing floors—and sand people, their grey-gray forms sooty, carrying buckets of dark fluid, scrubbing. One stumbled into Serath. Kneeling, Serath apologized. The sand person screamed through its respirator, prompting the nearest luminary to stride forward and crack a whip-neck motion, yanking the slave close and stomping sharply. Serath froze, horror filling her eyes.

Vaelora barely spared a glance. "Shall we continue?"

Each member wrestled with their impressions:

Vrakhar calculated tactical value this station made planetary defenses into child's play.

Verka studied Vaelora's calm, measuring her ruthlessness as a threat and an asset.

Kal'mor‑Zai watched in grim fascination, his mind balancing seer pride and dread of the ancient power that emanated from the monolith.

Shael'Ryn quietly cataloged every corridor, every force signature, every movement, her Faceless half cold, her Seer half aching with unease at the suppressed agony lingering in the stone.

Serath felt shame at the cruelty around her, but loyalty held her stiff, eyes flickering uneasily toward Kal'mor‑Zai for reassurance she never asked for.

The entourage passed massive hangars where millions of fighter vessels and support craft were in various states of decontamination, fueling, and rearming. Sand people scurried in packs under Shadowscourge supervision—marching formations, hauling heavy weapon crates with resigned precision.

Next were extensive training grounds: Thal'karn beasts prowled, handlers barked commands. Slave-fighting pits held thrashing combatants—sand people made to fight for muscle and spectacle. Nearby, murky black water pits waited with unseen predators. One slave feed creature—only to drown, his cloth floating briefly on the lifeless surface. Je'ka narrated quietly, her voice mirroring Vaelora's directive from behind.

Ahead loomed the stasis hall—billions frozen in suspended animation: soldiers, beasts, luminaries, Whisperers. Vrakhar paused. "We are but larvae among titans," he thought, awed by the scale.

At the Ascension Spire, two unfettered Thal'karn growled; Vaelora's single whistle brought them to serene stillness, coiling at the base of the spire like obedient hounds. Je'ka leaned in: "Next: Hakimu holy chambers. Silence, or death."

Two hulking male Hakimu—spiritual caste, their bodies etched with runic scars—guarded the door. As Vaelora passed, all bowed. Zaehra‑Suun, regal matriarch of the monolith, stepped from beneath the statue of the Ancient Queen. With mild curiosity she asked whether these were new slaves. Vaelora replied, "Great warriors." Shael'Ryn pointed at the surrounding statues: "Who's that?"

Zaehra-Suun's face did not flinch. "The Ancient Queen, governor of all." A nearby statue was being dismantled—Vaelora's company paused. Serath dared ask, "The princess—why destroy her?" Silence froze hearts. Zaehra replied flatly: "Her memory was treasonous and forbidden."

They reached the Command Nexus, a monumental chamber dominated by a hyper-3D multiverse holo-grid—ships danced across quadrant 7‑T. Shadowscourge scrambled, operating the banks of crystalline panels.

Vaelora ascended to a throne-like control dais. Behind her a vaulted gallery displayed art from the conquest of a thousand worlds. Tamun appeared with Vaelora's latest acquisition a brutalist Thalor sculpture he carried reverently.

As Vaelora seated herself, an external holo-screen revealed the Thalor capital below—towering spires, flooded plazas, legions mustering. She murmured to Vrakhar: "This is how I live."

He bowed before answering: "Indeed… most grand, Lady."

The weight of history, conquest, and ambition pressed on them all moments before the war truly began.