Aboard the Excalibur, in orbit over the Shadow Sea system
Sors Bandeam stood still at the edge of the Excalibur's observation deck, his black cape still despite the low ventilation hiss within the chamber. The view beyond was magnificent in a quiet, terrifying way—an artificial constellation now wrapped around the local sun. The Sun Razer platforms bloomed outward like petals of cold industry, each construction ring tethered to the others by flickers of energy and reinforced beam networks.
Downstream, enormous cargo droids maneuvered support pylons into place. Between them, latticework channels fed processed plasma into the massive sensor array—already humming with power as it cast invisible pulses across space. Just beyond, the retrofitted Lucrehulk, now designated Forge Star, hung like a bloated moon, its internal bay transformed into a mobile factory for deep-system probe deployment.
The transformation of the system was well ahead of schedule. Already, the first of the advanced survey drones had begun to push into the outer starfields, tracing routes with eerie precision. A complete hyperlane map of the Crescent Nebula was no longer a matter of if, but when.
Sors folded his arms and let a measured breath escape. It had taken less than a standard cycle to neuter resistance, to claim one of the most powerful systems in this alien galaxy, and now—
"My lord," came the voice of his comms droid, a polished black protocol unit with crimson eyes, "we have an unscheduled activation of the local Mass Relay. Single vessel. No escorts."
Sors didn't flinch. "Scan signature."
"Drive core configuration is Council-standard, design aligns with Turian warship architecture. Cruiser class, one of the heavier variants. No combat escort—likely diplomatic."
Of course. The Council's response. Predictable.
Sors turned slowly, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Open a channel. Let's welcome our guests."
=======================
Council POV
Aboard the Vigilant Resolve, minutes after arrival in the Crescent Nebula
The stars shifted as they always did during relay travel—violently and without warning. The mass relay spat them out into orbit near Illium, but the scene that met them was nothing short of staggering.
The tactical screens filled with readings almost instantly. An overwhelming energy signature pulsed ahead, where the sun glowed far more actively than usual—wrapped in scaffolding and artificial structure.
"Look at that!" said the young Asari envoy, awe bleeding into apprehension. It was the first time they had met a civilization that might stand at a higher level than them, even though no one was ready to proclaim this outloud.
On the central display, the scanner had outlined a massive flagship. Its size was comparable—quite probably even greater—than the Destiny Ascension, and flanking it were no fewer than seven ships the tactical officer immediately marked as dreadnoughts. A fleet this size, in one place, without any observable sign of smaller escort ships? It meant that this was the greeting party, the rest was already moving.
Captain Tarquin Septalis watched the screen in silence, his mandibles tight, arms behind his back.
"Estimate of their armament?" he asked evenly.
The weapons officer turned from his console, brow plates furrowed. "It's difficult to quantify. The large ship—designated Capital #1—has at least a few dozen spinal mounts. Dozens of similar size across the hull and increased number of smaller emplacements too, and I'm picking up suspicious hollow... —wait. They're tracking us."
"Confirmed," came the targeting officer. "Multiple turrets. Now following our trajectory."
The tension onboard thickened. Septalis raised his hand calmly. "No sudden movements. Comms—open a hail on all channels. Broadcast diplomatic credentials."
"Channel open, hailing now." the comms officer said nervously.
Septalis waited only a moment before issuing his next command. "Weapons officer—power down turrets. Return them to resting positions. All systems to safe mode. This is a diplomatic envoy. Let's not be remembered as the fools who jumped the gun once more."
He turned to the helmsman. "Full stop. Hold position, align broadside for full visibility."
A low rumble passed through the deck as the ship's thrusters fired in short, delicate bursts.
Then a silence. Five seconds. Ten.
Then—
"Commander!" the comms officer exclaimed, relief clear in his voice. "We're receiving an incoming transmission—from Unknown #1. Main channel."
Every officer on the bridge snapped to attention. A diplomatic channel was not just a formality anymore—it was survival. Septalis gave a curt nod.
"Patch it through to the envoy's vessel in the hangar."
The holotable hummed. A crimson-tinged hologram crackled into view, forming the shape of a tall humanoid figure draped in black, a mask covering their face.
"This is Sors Bandeam, Knight-General of the Empire in charge of this fleet, under the grace of the God-Emperor" the voice declared with effortless authority. "You have entered sovereign space under our stewardship. Your arrival is expected. State your purpose."
Behind him, the image flickered to show a live render of the system—a visual feed likely taken from a long-range sensor drone. Vigilant Resolve was but a speck among the Imperial fleet, dwarfed entirely by the sheer mass of the warships surrounding the area. The turrets visibly rotated in sync on the projection, not threatening… but never idle.
"I will grant you safe conduct for as long as your purpose remains diplomatic. Any deviation from that, and our response will be… decisive."
Sors' tone didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"Your turn, Turian of the Council Races."
The image froze, awaiting a response.
Septalis didn't speak immediately. He studied the man's composure, then cast a glance at the Asari matriarch, who gave a slight nod.
He stepped forward.
"This is Captain Septalis of the Council diplomatic envoy, requesting formal audience to establish communication between our peoples. We come in peace—and with an Envoy suitable to answer and and provide information on any question you might have regarding us."
He turned slightly to his comms officer. "Transmit… and standby."
========================
Prison Deck 7 — Section Red, Cell 03
POV: Liara T'Soni
The lights in the cell never truly went out. They dimmed, yes—shifted into a low blue hue during the artificial "night" cycles—but they remained constant, humming softly from recessed corners. It had been… days? Weeks? The concept of time had dissolved like mist in Liara's mind, leaving only impressions—moments—disjointed and scattered.
The two droids at the far end of the corridor hadn't moved in hours. Or maybe they had. Maybe she had just looked away.
Liara sat on the edge of the narrow cot, her hands curled into her lap, eyes fixed on the opposite wall. She blinked slowly, too slowly, and frowned. There were marks on the wall again.
She didn't remember putting them there. Not exactly.
Her pulse quickened as she leaned forward. It wasn't gibberish—was it? The symbols were… ordered. Elegant, even. Geometric and precise, like circuits within circuits, forming repeating patterns. Some had begun spiraling outward from a central glyph. It resembled a stylized eye. A V, perhaps—but elongated, with curling lines emerging from its base.
‾‾V‾‾
She'd drawn it before. Somewhere. Perhaps in a dream? No—too vivid for that. She stared at it, and something moved in the back of her thoughts. Not physically—just a shifting, like ideas sliding over one another. Something alien brushing her mind like silk. Thoughts that weren't hers.
"You are special. You are different... You deserve the TRUTH."
The whisper was not from the walls. It wasn't even a sound. More like a breath pressed into her awareness. A presence. She felt it, looming behind the bulkheads, never entering, never crossing the threshold—but always there. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
And something inside her had trembled.
Now, when she closed her eyes, she could still feel the gaze, like a thousand mirrored reflections focusing inward on her soul. A presence pressed against the cage of her mind, not with force, but with... curiosity, like she was a toy. A slow, methodical prodding of her being.
Sometimes, she found herself speaking aloud, only to realize she hadn't said anything at all. Just thought she had.
Sometimes, she woke from her trance, blood in hand, from gashes on her own body... for where else was there to draw blood. —another symbol etched into the walls or floor.
Sometimes, she saw light, light so bright it nearly blinded her.
Not real, not biotic—but flickering, like tattered threads, fraying from her vision. Always at the corners. Always out of reach... and always gone when she tried to look for them.
She stood abruptly, pacing.
She'd begun to dream in languages she didn't speak. When she woke, she remembered fragments—phrases. And sometimes when she whispered them in frustration, things, not real, not there, responded.
She paused by the wall again and reached out, fingertips trembling slightly as they hovered above the largest of the symbols she had drawn.
‾‾V‾‾
It pulsed once. Just faintly. Not visually—but deep in her bones.
"Flesh is the lie. IT WILL BETRAY YOU!" - An ethereal scream echoed in her mind.
Her breath caught.
She was now laying on the floor, on a diagram of unknown formulas, calculations she didn't write, but could somehow read.
Getting up she quickly backed away, her eyes widening at the complex nonsense sprawled in front of her.
Her own body was covered in cuts, bleeding gashes of her own making.
Spirals and arcs. Faint words in a language she knew she had never learned, but now could somehow read.
It read:
"Thought is the path."
"Change is the only truth."
============================
The sleek cruiser of Turian design eased forward on inertial thrusters, gliding into the shadow of a behemoth. What the Council crew first took for a single warship turned out to be only the central spine of a far larger, terrifying formation. Pristine white vessels flanked the dreadnought—each shaped with unsettling symmetry, marked by elongated V or rather more dagger-shaped hulls and a kind of clinical, reflective polish.
And far ahead of them, like a pale dagger piercing the void, was the ship known only by their id as Unknown #1 on their own system, but their IFF was clearly returning some sort of name, in another language.
It surpassed even the Destiny Ascension. Not just in size, but in presence.
Every meter of it was a weapon. Damnation, if the armor was half as thick as it seemed, its own body was a weapon.
Fighter escorts approached in a perfect tetrahedral formation— sleek white interceptors, moving with synchronous precision. No visible pilots in all but one fighter, perhaps their leader. No comms chatter. Just tight-course correction pings and vector alignment, guiding his ship like it was being ferried—not monitored, not threatened.
Chaperoned.
Inside the Bridge
Captain Septalis, the turian in charge of escorting the members of the delegation, stood beside the helmsman. He crossed his arms as he watched the approach vector stabilize. The sheer size of the Excalibur forced his eyes upward every few seconds.
"This is one hell of a ship," he muttered. "Disregard that, It's a damn moving fortress. Judging by the thickness of the hangar doors it can easily take most of our armament with just paint scratch to show for it."
Beside him, the Asari Matriarch Althanis adjusted her flowing diplomatic robes. Her gaze was calm, yet her biotic aura pulsed faintly—a trained reflex, perhaps, in such alien and unsteady surroundings. "Then we must treat it as such, and assume those who built it understand power very intimately."
The helmsman swallowed dryly as the hangar door ahead slowly split open, revealing a cavernous bay of eerie white light.
Docking Bay: Excalibur
As the cruiser settled into the berth and its landing ramp lowered with a hiss of pressurized gas, the delegation was met by rows upon rows of immaculate white-armored soldiers. Each stood perfectly still. Hundreds of glowing photoreceptors followed the envoy's descent down the ramp, but not one weapon twitched, not a single footstep rang out.
The silence was deliberate. Tactile.
And the corridor they were funneled through was unmistakable: a single open path between droid and trooper alike—leading directly to a tall figure clad in pale, contoured armor and a black helmet. The figure's hands were clasped behind his back, a long black cape draping to his boots. He resembled Asari and Humans in general shape, but then again so did drell. He said nothing as they approached.
Sors Bandeam.
At least that was the name they were given.
Interior Hallways
The delegation walked in silence, flanked at every angle by more guards. Some were too fluid to be droids. Their stance, the subtle shift of weight—it spoke of life behind the visor.
Behind and ahead of the group, silent droids walked in perfect step—spherical sensor orbs above their shoulders humming faintly.
The halls were wide. Gilded with inset lights and silvery-black alloy panels, giving a sense of both cathedral and military dreadnought. The group walked without guidance, for no alternate paths were offered. No turns. No doors.
Observation Deck — Excalibur
Sors stood beside a long black table, a few consoles displaying holo-rings of system data. He turned only when the delegation stopped across from him, and even then, gave only a simple greeting.
"Welcome aboard the Excalibur," he said, voice modulated through a voice-changer that erased tone, youth, and warmth. "Your arrival has been rather abrupt."
Matriarch Althanis stepped forward, offering a practiced bow of the head. "We come as representatives of the Citadel Council, bringing the standard necessities in the event of a First Contact —medical packages, diplomatic codices, and cultural data. As is tradition."
Sors tilted his helmet slightly, then motioned with a single hand.
"We respectfully decline."
The table went silent for a moment. The Matriarch's smile flickered, the corners of her mouth dipping almost imperceptibly. "I see. Might I ask why?"
"We already possess the information we need," Sors said. "Your world, Illium, provided it in full."
The Asari's smile vanished as a troubled expression appeared on her face. "That action was not only unprovoked, but highly inflammatory. The Council races will see it as a hostile first step."
Sors waved a gloved hand slowly, as if brushing the issue aside. "Illium resides in the Terminus Systems. It is, by your own designation, a region beyond Council control—lawless. Independent. You've made that distinction for decades. We acted accordingly."
Septalis stepped forward now, his voice tight. "That's a technicality. Illium operates under Asari law and receives direct trade and protection from Council-adjacent sectors. It was functionally neutral—until your arrival."
Sors did not move. "Function and designation are not the same. Regardless, by your own laws, Illium is not your responsibility or problem... and even if it was not for it, I simply do not have the authority to partake in any diplomatic decisions that might affect the Empire.
Althanis breathed slowly. He was stalling. She could feel it. The way he spoke, the very manner of his speech. The lack of interest in reciprocity. No questions. No curiosity. Just polite rejection.
"We will entertain diplomatic presence," he said. "For now. On our terms, at least until a fitting representative of the deciding authority from the Empire arrives."
The standoff had settled into something resembling conversation, even if both sides still measured each word like coin. The lighting from the observation deck cast pale reflections across the delegation's armor and robes, and the slow crawl of construction drones glinting in the sun-bathed void outside gave a strangely serene backdrop to the diplomatic chessboard being assembled.
Matriarch Althanis, ever the politician, understood now that she had overreached. The one before her—Sors Bandeam, or whatever name masked his true rank and nature—had seen through the posture and polite outrage. He hadn't rejected her gifts out of disdain. He simply did not need them.
She leaned back slightly, hands now clasped neatly in front of her.
"Of course," she said smoothly. "It is not worth hostilities for a world in what many would call a no man's land. Still… surely a man in your position can appreciate the reaction. A sudden incursion, close to our borders, will raise concern—even among those who had long ignored the region."
Sors nodded once, slowly.
"I understand. The reaction is predictable. Expected, even. But ultimately," he said, tilting his helmet back toward the solar flares beyond the window, "your borders remain untouched. The Empire has no interest in Citadel space. Your worlds, your people—they are not our concern. "
That drew a faint but curious furrow in the Matriarch's brow. He was offering reassurances, yes—but also establishing that their authority stopped at their borders, that anything beyond them was now open to reinterpretation. It would be best to have Specters already in the field keep a low profile and see what this Empire was up to exactly. Were they searching for something?
Numerous thoughts passed her mind before she decided she needed much more information before she could come to any conclusion, even far-fetched ones. She decided to start small.
"If I may," she said calmly, "you speak of the Empire as if it is common knowledge. That implies it's not exactly a sensitive subject. May I ask you to share some of your history? I am rather curious as for how it came to be."
She paused, watching his faceless helmet. Not hostile—merely weighted.
Sors did not move, not at first. When he did, it was to fold his hands behind his back, posture straightening with silent pride.
And then he spoke.
"Two thousand voices once cried out across the stars. It was divine judgment, a wakeup call." he began, voice even and modulated, yet carrying with it the gravity of a sermon, a memorial, and a challenge.
"Petty nations, petty ideals. A corrupted republic. Profit seeking corporations, coalitions, and councils—each bickering over borders while their people drowned in the rot of decay. The old order had grown bloated and blind. It had lost the will to endure, let alone lead."
He turned slightly, facing the viewport again. The tone had not grown louder. It hadn't needed to. There was a rhythm to the words now, a cadence that almost drew breath for the listener.
"He walked among the ashes of a dying galaxy. Not as a conqueror—as there was no need, he was our chosen—but as a catalyst. Worlds followed Him not from fear, but faith, belief, not blind but in what he had achieved, because they remembered what it meant to have someone who put them first. Hope. Order. One by one, the old boundaries crumbled. Bureaucrats vanished. Warlords were broken. And still He pressed forward, dragging the galaxy behind Him like a shattered beast on a chain."
He paused.
"It was not clean. It was not gentle. Unity never is."
Althanis glanced sideways. It was an impressive story, but she was skeptical, as it lacked any real details.
"But when the smoke cleared," Sors continued, "the stars stood aligned under a single name: The Empire. Not built by treaties. Not born in committee. But willed into existence. The Emperor took the will of the people, molded it, and from it, The Empire was born. The Emperor did not merely lead us. He bound us. His will became law, and our wills—in time—became His."
He looked over his shoulder now, head angled just enough to face them without offering anything readable.
"And when that moment came… He Ascended."
Althanis furrowed her brow. "Ascended?"
Sors nodded, slowly.
"Yes. Beyond flesh. Beyond time. Not death—transcendence. His mind had already stretched across fleets, worlds, and species. But in that moment, His soul did the same. The Empire is not led by a mortal now. It is embodied by Him. And through His Imperial Voice, His Knights, His Legions, and the Inquisition, His Will continues… unbroken."
The Asari opened her mouth to speak, but Sors raised one hand—not to interrupt, but to clarify.
"You ask how the Empire came to be. That is how. Through the fire of failure, through the ruins of its previous corruption, the cold of necessity, and the unyielding hand of a single being who would not allow decay to consume us."
A smile passed the Matriarch face as she nodded slightly, a completely different sight as compared to the wide-eyed look of her younger protege.
"It certainly..." She was interrupted as the doors opened, another knight gesturing towards the Knight-General.
"My apologies. It seems duty calls. My troops will escort you back to your ship, after which, we will reactivate the relay. As a sign of goodwill, the Empire is willing to release its captives into the custody of the Council."
That surprised her. Though after a quick calculation she realized his goal. Truly, captives were valuable, but non-Citadel captives meant little, nevertheless, it would buy much goodwill ofr the upcoming meeting between the delegates.
A.N: Sorry for the delay, but i've had a lot of IRL work and stuff to do. Still didn't come out as good as i wished, even though i mostly wrote it myself, ChatGPT ended up threatening the council envoy almost every chance it got... in so-so many ways :O , passive aggresive, outright hostility, outright just threatening them to "get onboard with the changes coming to the galaxy." Anyway, hope you all enjoyed it :)