Celeste Vale hunched over her tray in the Hyperion's mess hall, cheeks puffed, hands a blur as she shoveled food into her mouth with hamster-like tenacity.
Silas Vire watched her from across the table, brows raised, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. The girl inhaled her rations like she'd never eaten aboard the ship before.
Celeste paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing. "What?" she mumbled through a mouthful.
Silas smirked. "Nothing. Just wondering if you intend to leave any for the rest of us."
She snorted and went back to devouring her meal. "This is the first proper food I've had since boarding. I'm not taking any chances."
In truth, since the events on Arcturus, her fear of Silas had withered. She still saw him as dangerous—cold, calculating, lethal—but somehow not hostile. At least, not toward her. Not yet.
Luckily, their recent resupply on Arcturus had left the Hyperion's food and water stores topped off. With only three people aboard, consumption wasn't an issue.
Silas turned back to his console, navigating a galactic chart as hundreds of pinpricks of light—planets, trade posts, military routes—spread before him.
Originally, his course had been set for the Storm Galaxy.
But plans change.
The White Night had suffered damage during the Arcturus operation. Minor on the surface—but Silas didn't trust surface assessments.
The ship had been buried in planetary crust for over ten thousand years. That kind of dormancy left scars. And out here, even a hairline fracture in the wrong subsystem could mean catastrophic failure during an interstellar jump.
He needed repairs.
Fortunately, the closest viable option was Vulcan—a planetary forge world in the Blazing Galaxy. Populated by an alien race renowned for one thing: shipcraft.
The Vulcans of the Blazing Sun were legendary builders, creators of vessels both graceful and monstrous. Their drydocks supplied every known faction—from pirate fleets to Ascendancy warcarriers. Even Sol's own Venus shipyards employed Vulcan artisans.
Silas tapped his console.
[Navigation Updated: Blazing Galaxy – Vulcan]
[Spacefold Initiating…]
Two ships—the Hyperion and the White Night—vanished into streaks of luminescent blue, disappearing into subspace.
—
Dark Elf Homeworld – Obsidian Port
In a vast, obsidian-coated spaceport draped in steel banners, General Alvex of the Dark Elf Dominion stood before a high command console, his expression carved in stone.
The news was unacceptable.
The Treasure Hunter Mercenary Corps was gone. Off the grid. No responses. No distress calls. Nothing.
And worse—the artifact, the core of the Zerg Altar, had moved.
It was no longer stationary. No longer buried on Arcturus.
It was traveling.
Alvex's fist crashed into a nearby wall, leaving a crater in the alloy. The soldiers nearby flinched but didn't speak.
"You incompetent bottom-feeders," he growled. "They had one task—recover the relic. And now it's in the wind."
Alvex activated a relic scanner. The signal was faint but moving—toward the Blazing Galaxy.
If the relic was destroyed… or worse, reborn somewhere inaccessible… centuries of planning would be undone.
"Deploy the First Talon," he ordered, voice sharp as a blade. "They are to retrieve the altar—no excuses. If they fail, they are not to return."
The command echoed across the blackened steel halls. Moments later, the elite strike fleet launched—dozens of Void-class Dark Elf warships burning trails through the void, headed straight for Vulcan.
—
Vulcan Orbit – Outer Approach
The Hyperion emerged from subspace above the forge world of Vulcan.
The vista was breathtaking.
The orbital lanes surrounding the planet were thick with vessels—thousands of them. Merchant barges, scout frigates, battleships undergoing retrofits, and ships so alien in shape and texture they defied easy classification.
Celeste pressed against the viewing window, her eyes wide.
"That one's made of… flesh?" she asked, pointing at a grotesque, organic vessel that pulsed like a beating heart, veins rippling across its hull.
"Yes," Silas said. "Biomass ship. Zarellian make, probably. Grows its own fuel."
She turned to the next—an enormous crystalline obelisk drifting alongside escort drones. Its surface shimmered in fractal arrays.
"And that?"
"Crystanide caste ship. Sentient mineral species."
Celeste blinked.
"I thought the solar system had weird tech," she whispered.
"Welcome to the Sea of space," Silas said. "The Sol system was just a puddle."
The communications panel chimed.
[Welcome to Vulcan. Docking clearance granted.]
[Berths assigned: Zone 66 – Docks 9 and 10.]
[Master shipwrights en route. Please remain aboard until guided by ground personnel.]
Silas confirmed the approach. Moments later, both the Hyperion and the White Night descended into Vulcan's lower orbital drydock.
As the titanic hull of the Hyperion cast its shadow across the metal yards, the local engineers erupted into excitement.
"By the forge—an S-Class?"
"Look at that finish. That's Tyronian alloy! Haven't seen one of these since the Second Collapse!"
"And the A-Class parked next to it—look at the neural lattice patterns on the plating!"
The dock swarmed with shipwrights like bees to sacred hives. To the Vulcans, ships were not machines. They were art. Religion. Lovers.
Silas and Celeste disembarked without fanfare. The Vulcans didn't even glance at them.
They were obsessed—touching, documenting, whispering to the vessels in reverent tones.
Celeste blinked. "They're ignoring us."
Silas shrugged. "To them, we're tourists. The ships are what matter."
Then he noticed a familiar silhouette descending from a smaller crimson vessel on Dock 8.
The Valkyrion.
And from it stepped a woman in high-grade red armor, her movements tired, her hair damp from exertion.
Lyra Caelis.
He hadn't seen her since Lunar Port.
She was speaking to a technician.
"How long will it take to repair?"
The Vulcan engineer scratched his head. "Crimson-class warp damage, plasma scoring along the hull, dead core circuits… minimum a hundred hours."
"I don't care about the cost," she snapped. "Just fix it."
Then she turned.
And froze.
Eyes locking onto the Hyperion.
Silas.
Her expression shifted through exhaustion, confusion… and something colder.
He folded his arms, watching her with quiet amusement.
Well.
This should be interesting.