The Blazing Galaxy had quieted, but Silas Vire knew better than to relax. The Night Empire had suffered a humiliating defeat—but they wouldn't risk sending another fleet to Vulcan, not with the Solar Ascendancy mobilizing in the Inland Sea.
If they did… they wouldn't just lose ships. They'd ignite a war.
The loss of some client routes was acceptable. Vulcan's forge-lords had already braced for that risk.
"Captain Vire," rumbled the Lord of Vulcan, "come with me to the Hall. You've earned rest. And I have something that may interest you."
The man's tone carried weight. Not flattery—calculation. The forge-lord saw in Silas not just strength, but trajectory.
The Vulcan Lords had watched empires rise and fall, but the humans—now expanding across the Void—were different. In less than a thousand years, they had forged the Sun Ascendancy and carved a place for themselves in a galaxy of giants.
Silas agreed. With the Hyperion and the White Night undergoing final calibration, he had time to spare.
"I'm going too," Celeste Vale said, striding after them with a bounce in her step. Despite the recent bloodshed, her spirit hadn't dulled.
White Warbler, however, remained aboard the White Night. Her presence drew attention, and she would not abandon the sealed core buried deep within the ship's psionic hold.
—
The Lord's Hall of Vulcan was no throne room—it was a temple of power. The walls pulsed with alloy veins that glowed from internal heat. A cathedral of function and form, designed by shipwrights and sacred engineers.
Crystalline chandeliers, powered by plasma cores, hung over floors of polished obsidian and black-forged jade. Every surface shimmered with residual forge-energy.
Silas and Celeste were led to a reception chamber where twin mugs of Vulcan forgebrew were served—thick, aromatic, potent. The kind of brew meant to keep a builder awake through solar storms.
Celeste took a sip and arched an eyebrow. "This is stronger than anything from the capital."
Silas grunted in agreement.
Moments later, the Vulcan Lord returned, carrying an ancient astrolabe—the kind used to store navigational relics and forgotten star-maps.
Silas's eyes narrowed. Astrolabes were the gambler's coin of the Void—sometimes they led to wealth, more often to death.
The forge-lord set it down.
"Relax," he said. "I'm not sending you treasure hunting. This isn't for profit."
He activated the mechanism. A projection unfurled—coordinates, telemetry pulses, and a faint emergency signal.
"This was recorded hours ago by one of our deep-range satellites. It's human. A distress call, originating from a vessel stranded on the planet Moko, in the Radiant Sector."
"Moko?" Celeste asked, surprised. "That system is… dead."
"Desert world. Weak magnetic field. No biosphere. No native threats," Silas said, recalling the astrodata. "There shouldn't be anyone there."
The Vulcan Lord nodded. "And yet, the signal's real. A human vessel. The callsign registered to a minor colonial expedition—Stonebridge Division. They're requesting immediate aid."
Silas frowned. "Why not respond yourselves?"
"As Lord of Spectro Dock, I'm bound by neutrality. Sending aid beyond this sector violates the Accord. But you…"
He didn't finish.
Silas retrieved the coordinates and loaded them into his techband. "I'll investigate. No promises beyond that."
The Vulcan Lord inclined his head. "That's all I ask."
Beside them, Celeste suddenly shifted. Her expression darkened.
"What is it?" Silas asked.
"Stonebridge… that name," she murmured. "My family had dealings with them. They were involved in weapons testing during the Rift Incursion. Most of the data was sealed."
Silas absorbed that silently. Then turned toward the docks.
—
By the next cycle, the Hyperion and the White Night had been fully restored.
Repairs complete. Hull integrity optimal. Reactor calibration at 99.9%.
Silas had also secured the wreckage of the Night Raid from Vulcan's salvage pools—smelting its alloy reserves and cannibalizing its armaments. The result: an enormous stockpile of exotic resources and enough core fuel to fire the Yamato Cannon at maximum yield… indefinitely.
He stood on the Hyperion's command bridge and tapped the interface.
[Set Destination: Radiant Galaxy – Moko System]
[Initiating Subspace Jump…]
The twin vessels vanished into the Void.
—
Moko.
A dead world.
Three planets orbited a dying star known only as Radiance. The entire sector had been blacklisted by colonists—uninhabitable, unsalvageable.
As the Hyperion approached the target coordinates, the atmosphere rippled with electromagnetic interference. Moko's surface storms were infamous—not dangerous, but laden with magnetic ore that scattered sensors.
"Picking up a signal," said the AI. "Weak. Fragmented. Transmitting audio..."
"...This is the Stonebridge Expedition… systems failing… need evac…"
"…Radiation shielding compromised… human crew… Moko Sector… emergency…"
Silas frowned. He recognized the cadence of desperation. It wasn't a trap—not the kind amateurs set.
But something still felt wrong.
"Storm's interfering with clarity," he muttered.
Celeste stood beside him, arms crossed, gaze distant. She had heard the name Stonebridge. And she didn't like it.
"Prep drop teams," Silas said.
As the Hyperion descended into the toxic skies of Moko, its silhouette vanished into a storm of glass dust and magnetic fury.
And on the surface, something ancient… listened.