She sat shackled to a steel bench, her wrists raw from the cuffs, her tattered tunic clinging to her sweat-damp skin.
Through the shuttle's narrow viewport, she glimpsed the void—and the Spectral fleet that dominated it. Dozens of ships drifted like silent titans, their sleek, obsidian hulls glinting with Aetheric runes that pulsed like heartbeats. Smaller carriers and destroyers clustered around the Eclipticon, a behemoth that dwarfed them all, its spires stretching into the stars like a sleeping god.
The Crucible warship loomed ahead, a war engine the size of a mountain, its armor ridged and alive with slow, throbbing veins of violet energy. Rows of gun batteries lined its belly like jagged teeth. Smaller vessels flitted around it like insects orbiting a predator. Its insignia—an obsidian blade through a dying star—glowed across its hull.
This is their power, Freya thought, her chest tightening. A fleet built to conquer, not to create. What chance do I have against this?
The transport ship docked with a shudder, magnetic clamps hissing as they locked onto the titanic structure looming beyond the viewport.
Freya stared out, eyes wide.
That's not a ship. That's a floating fortress.
The Crucible.
The air inside was hotter, dry, tinged with metal and ozone. Spectral guards stood waiting—tall, lithe, helmets shaped like wolf skulls, cloaks dragging behind. They moved without speaking.
"Out," one barked.
Freya stepped into the Crucible, her boots heavy on the metal floor. She clutched the crude duffel Mira had helped her pack. It held little—standard grey tunic, ration tabs, and a worn cloth Mira insisted she use as a pillow. The guards didn't allow goodbyes.
I'll see her again. I have to.
The ship was a forge, not a vessel; every surface was sharp and utilitarian, designed for combat and indoctrination.
Spectral guards herded Freya and a dozen other prisoners—mostly Chaos Caste, their violet eyes dull with resignation—into the Crucible's endless corridors. Their walls pulsing faintly with aetheric flow. The Crucible was alive in some way—breathing, watching. She could feel it in her skin.
Freya's boots echoed on the steel floor as they passed a ritual chamber where Pureborn Spectrals stood in perfect formation, their voices chanting in monotone, their faces devoid of emotion. Aetheric energy crackled around them, a terrifying display of efficiency and control.
They don't feel, Freya thought, her heart pounding.
No joy, no sorrow—just purpose. I can't become like them.
...
Eventually, they were led into the Dormitory Ring, fourth-tier deck. Rows of compartmentalized pods lined the walls, coffin-like sleeping quarters stacked three high.
"This your hole," a Spectral handler said, pointing at a top pod.
Freya climbed the ladder and peeked in. It was barely longer than her body. Smooth metal, padded floor, soft inner lights.
No blankets. No door.
Later, the mess hall. Long metal benches. High ceiling. Smells of iron and something synthetic.
A ration bar landed on her tray—dense, beige, no taste. A pitcher of thick, mineral-dense fluid followed.
This is what fuel tastes like. She chewed anyway. She needed it.
A handler shouted names. "Freya. Section 12. Combat Training begins now."