Asheron's Reach rose like a myth from the darkness of space.
The orbital debris belt that encircled it had once been a defense grid—now shattered, drifting fragments of forgotten wars. Below, the moon's jagged surface flickered with faint lights and heat blooms. It was no military stronghold. It was a graveyard turned sanctuary.
The Arclight Marauder descended in silence, cloaked by Echelon's field dampeners. Julius, Vara, and Brinley stood at the viewport, watching the surface swell beneath them.
"This doesn't look like a fortress," Brinley muttered.
Vara shook her head. "It's not. It's where the Vesper go to hide, heal, and sometimes… to die."
As they broke atmosphere, the network signal flared alive—dozens of encrypted pings and narrow-beam transmissions. Automated guns tracked them, then disengaged. Echelon relayed clearance codes without prompting.
"Docking corridor aligned," it said. "We are expected."
The landing bay was carved directly into a mountain ridge, shielded beneath retractable stone plates. Their ship settled into the cradle, and the bay doors sealed shut behind them.
At the airlock, a delegation waited.
Captain Orla Vey stood at its head, flanked by two armored sentinels in patchwork gear—symbiote traces visible in subtle pulses across their armor. Their suits weren't like Seraphel or Echelon. These were dormant bonds, half-awake, like ghosts sleeping beneath their skin.
Orla greeted them with a simple nod. "Welcome home, Vara."
Vara didn't respond immediately. She stepped forward, eyes on the Captain. "I don't know if this place is still home. But we're here because the galaxy needs what's left of the Pact."
Orla motioned them in. "Then come see what's left."
They were led through carved tunnels reinforced with salvaged ship metal and crystallized alloy. Murals of past Vesper wars—symbiotes in full fury, Hive monstrosities torn apart—lined the walls. It was less shrine and more warning.
"After the fall of Lunaris, we retreated here," Orla explained. "The Hive scattered us. Many lost their bonds. Some were taken. We've spent years rebuilding—not just weapons, but will."
Julius glanced at one mural. "That was Vorr, wasn't it?"
A twisted figure in obsidian bone, towering over dozens of armored corpses, its arms bristling with infected weapons.
Orla followed his gaze. "Yes. Before he evolved. Before we truly understood what he was becoming."
They arrived in a central chamber—a war room filled with three-dimensional tactical maps, fleet readings, and projections. Dozens of Vesper members stood around the room, hardened men and women with the worn eyes of survivors.
"We've confirmed Vorr's signal," Orla said, activating a projection. "He's burrowing into an ancient construct buried beneath the crust of the moon Dyris-5. We think it's a Hive control nexus—part of an old empire long before he turned rogue. If he wakes it, he'll command more than a fleet. He'll control the Root—the Hive's collective will."
Silence.
Then Julius stepped forward. "Then we stop him before that happens. We hit him now—hard, fast, with everything we've got."
A voice rang out from the back: "And what makes you think you're the one to lead this?"
It came from a tall, imposing figure—his armor cracked and faded, a symbiote mark burned across his throat like a brand. "You're bonded. That makes you dangerous."
Orla stepped between them. "He's bonded to Echelon. One of the original Seven. He's earned his place."
The room quieted. But not in surrender—in calculation.
Julius didn't flinch. "I'm not here for titles. I'm here to stop Vorr. You want vengeance? Freedom? A future? Then help me burn him out before it's too late."
Vara stepped to his side. "And if you don't believe him, believe me. I chose to bond with Seraphel again. That's how serious this is."
A murmur spread across the room.
Finally, Orla nodded. "Then prepare. We launch in two days. Sleep if you can. You won't again for a long time."