War.
The most violent, most extreme, yet often the most effective way to resolve conflict. Though war rarely brings true resolution, and more often than not leads only to one's own ruin—
Still, war is convenient.
No words of persuasion can compare to the raw, searing lessons of lived suffering.
"Lord Mengsk, what office do you seek?"
A vague, platinum figure radiated brilliance, seated in Arcturus's former chair behind the polished, carved redwood desk. The broken windows and doors let in the mingled scents of charred stone, blood, smoke, and steel. Outside, in Augustgrad's Grand Pyramid Palace square, Korhal's soldiers rioted and panicked.
"Your Majesty decides all," came the trembling reply.
At the instant Selene's voice reached him, Valerian's head jerked up. His body trembled, every nerve saturated with dread.
His mind had yet to respond, but years of training as the Dominion's crown prince had engraved reflex into him. The words leapt from his lips.
With a father like Arcturus Mengsk—rebel hero, tyrant, and butcher—Valerian had endured countless examinations under his shadow. Selene's question felt almost familiar. And in such trials, sincerity was never the answer.
He knelt upon the silken carpet of imperial style. From the corner of his eye, a headless corpse intruded into view. The faint iron tang of blood told him plain: this was the Augustgrad Imperial Palace.
Valerian forced himself to meet the silver-haired woman's shimmering projection. He buried every flicker of excess emotion, dredged up all his lessons, and fixed his mind on visions of a future beyond the war—anything to avoid stray thoughts.
Moments ago, he had been on Umoja. Now, suddenly, he stood here—in his father's palace—where, only hours earlier, he had watched across light-years as Arcturus's head was severed.
Now, seeing her with his own eyes—
He realized those ornate murals carved by long-dead hands into alien ruins, their gaudy descriptions of the Xel'naga "creators," had not been exaggerated. If anything, they had been far too plain.
Unbothered, the silver-haired empress smiled faintly, propped her chin in one hand, and with the other lifted a glass of well-aged port from the desk. She sipped, closed her eyes, and in a tone utterly natural—utterly calm—she mused:
"Then what shall I give you? A colony world, to resettle? A license for trade fleets and pioneers? Or perhaps a governor's post, on some minor planet…"
She paused. Turned her head. Light and shadow rippled across her face, outlining a sharp smile.
"After the war, I shall grant you Tarsonis. You were quick enough, Valerian I, not to meddle under my nose."
With casual grace, she picked up a stack of papers from the desk—an official Dominion document, its script a mongrel of English and Russian forms. Its heading read: Tarsonis Reconstruction Plan.
Tarsonis.
Once, the Confederacy's heart.
When humanity first came to the Koprulu sector aboard four great colony ships, the lead vessel, Nagglfar, landed upon Tarsonis. It carried the supercomputer ATLAS. Though ATLAS suffered fatal malfunctions, its surviving technology still left Tarsonis far ahead of Moria or Umoja, where crash survivors had far less to salvage.
The fourth ship never landed at all. It crashed in descent, annihilating all aboard.
When contact was reestablished among the colonies, Tarsonis stood foremost, the most prosperous and advanced of them all.
At the Confederacy's height, vast wealth and resources poured daily from the colonies into Tarsonis. Its economy shone so bright that no other human world in the Koprulu sector could compare.
Until Arcturus Mengsk toppled the Confederacy with the Zerg invasion and established the Dominion on Korhal, Tarsonis had been the political heart of human power.
Yes—with the Zerg. He used them.
The cataclysm that killed at least two billion souls on Tarsonis was no accident, but part of Arcturus's design. He guided the swarm toward Tarsonis, using them to obliterate the Confederacy—just as the Confederacy had once annihilated Korhal with nuclear fire.
He concealed it well, telling no one.
Rumors had circulated, but they were dismissed as enemy slander, lacking evidence. Without Jim Raynor—the fated man who uncovered the truth and broadcast it through the Raiders—most Terrans would have continued to revere Arcturus.
Now Selene's secondary consciousness, tethered through the palace's data cores, had already rifled through the Dominion's archives, public and sealed alike. The truth lay bare. The file she held was one of Arcturus's projects: a Tarsonis Reconstruction Plan. It was meant to placate the refugees, a promise that Tarsonis would rise again, guided by the Dominion to greater glory.
"Of course, it is only temporary. Whether Tarsonis becomes a true holding of House Mengsk will depend on you."
Selene's tone was casual, decisive. "I will make you planetary governor. It will not be hereditary. If you can restore production, govern well, and aid the sector's governor, perhaps it will endure."
For the sector's governorship, Selene had already marked Korhal IV.
A little irony, a little malice—a tactical exchange of homes. Korhal for Tarsonis.
The mutual scorn between Korhalans and Tarsonians was infamous. A fitting punishment, and amusement besides.
"By your will," Valerian answered at once, without hesitation.
He knew what this meant. Selene was generous—with what was not hers. After the cataclysm, Tarsonis's survivors had scattered. The planet itself was sealed off, forbidden any resettlement, with only Dominion recovery teams combing the ruins for lost technology.
At present, Tarsonis might not even hold ten thousand souls, and Zerg remnants prowled its ruins. To rebuild would demand immense effort.
Selene cast him a sidelong glance, then drifted away from the desk. She had no interest in the other captives gathered here. Instead, she glided toward the wall-mounted wine cabinet.
To protect against assassination attempts, Arcturus had sealed his collection in a reflective glass case, guarded by impenetrable force fields. Anyone who knew the Mengsk family knew their taste for fine liquor.
Selene now claimed the treasure as her own, moving as though she had always lived here.
Hum— A faint ripple shimmered as her hand passed through the force field. She plucked out a bottle of ruby red, its glass gleaming like gemstone, and carried it to the wide viewport.
Beyond the window, leviathans of steel floated above Augustgrad, blotting out the sun.
"In this furnace of empire, House Mengsk will not be crushed. As for what form remains… that depends on you."
Released from paralysis, Valerian forced his aching body upright. He accepted the crystal goblet trembling in his hands and drained it in one motion.
Selene, idly examining the wine's hues through the crystal, did not turn as she spoke:
"The ceremony of surrender has begun. I grant you leave to select retainers, should they accept. Once stability is restored in the Dominion, you will be escorted to the Imperial capital. There, a vacancy for planetary governor will be made whole in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Afterward, you will take your post on Tarsonis."
"Now, let me see your ability."
"At once, Your Majesty." Valerian bowed deeply, retreating until he stood beyond the Grand Pyramid Palace doors. Panic welled as he wondered how to lead away the throngs of subordinates and allies kneeling in the halls and chambers.
Then—whoosh!
His vision blurred. Emptiness swallowed him. When his sight refocused, he stood outside the spire palace. Around him, shocked cries rose like waves—
"I didn't see wrong, did I? That's the corpse of that dog Arcturus! I'd know the bronze medal on that headless body even if it were ashes…"
"What the hell? Weren't we just in Umojan territory moments ago?"
The Raiders and Umojan Protectorate soldiers swayed unsteadily, still groggy, wincing at the deep ache wracking their bodies.
Even Rory Swann, usually brash and hot-tempered, muttered like a subdued cat, his booming voice lowered.
"Your Highness… you've returned… His Majesty is dead. Your unconditional surrender broadcast… what do we do now?"
These were Korhal's palace guards. Without exception, all turned their eyes to Valerian as their anchor.
When they heard the broadcast proclaiming Arcturus's death, they had stormed into the spire chamber to confirm it. Bloodstains lay beside the prism, and the shimmering illusion had crushed their will. No words or gestures had been needed—the phantom alone had broken them, grinding them into the floor beneath their own armor.
"Your Highness, did we truly surrender unconditionally?"
The guard captain lifted his rounded helmet, hesitation etched on his face. "Majesty…"
"It is enough. Your loyalty is enough."
It wasn't that they hadn't tried. But how could men prevail against foes who fielded Titans and stood with gods?
Valerian forced a thin smile. "The cost of resistance… no one can bear it."
"Xel'naga… who can say?" he murmured, adjusting his wrinkled uniform before clapping his hands lightly.
"Come. Cooperation is the only road to survival."
...
"...By order of Valerian Mengsk, heir to the Dominion, we hereby declare unconditional surrender to the Sacred Selene Empire, Third Legion Black Templars , 2nd Company Expeditionary Fleet—effective immediately!"
The end-of-war declaration spread at once, looping on every channel. The Black Templars' fleet halted its offensive in the same instant.
The world seemed suddenly clearer. Fine flakes drifted down from the skies—dust and ash, the remnants of explosions.
The Black Templars' occupation forces stood arrogantly across every square and defensive line.
Clatter!
The first Dominion marine approached a warrior in purple-gold power armor. He dropped his weapon, removed his helmet, and collapsed to his knees, head bowed.
Where one led, others followed. Soon the squares rang with the sound of weapons cast aside and armor discarded.
Emperor Arcturus I was dead. His heir, Valerian, had declared unconditional surrender. For Korhal's soldiers, who had sworn to fight to the end, it was a hammer blow. Morale shattered in an instant.
The high command had long sealed battle reports, convincing them that victory would mirror the first Defense of Korhal—that when the fleets of the sector returned, the enemy would be driven out, no matter how fierce.
But when the truth was unveiled, when collapse could no longer be hidden—even the officers lost faith. The rout was inevitable.
"Lay down your arms, bind yourselves, and kneel. Only then may death be stayed!"
"Arcturus is dead!"
"Your false emperor, Valerian I, has declared unconditional surrender!"
"All who resist shall be executed!"
Within the fortress walls, thunderous voices echoed, making every defender shudder.
Then came the stamp of countless boots, the roar of engines, the hiss of laser fire, and muffled cries.
Clatter! Thousands of auxilia and servitor troops, led by a handful of Astartes, poured into the ring-fortress of Augustgrad's palace. They swept through every Dominion position, inspecting defenses and flushing out stragglers.
Suddenly—BOOM! A colossal explosion erupted a hundred kilometers away. A pillar of fire lanced skyward, blooming like a sorcerer's flower, brilliant and fleeting, scattering into ash.
The murmurs began at once.
"Stand down. It's not our concern. The Dickens family bunker resisted. That was their stronghold. They're finished."
So the news spread—families who thought to negotiate terms from their bunkers were obliterated instead. Greed made fools of them. The Sacred Selene Empire had decreed a ninety-percent levy on noble fortunes, stripping their wealth and privileges. Some tried to haggle. The Empire's answer was annihilation.
"You are not nobles of Selene. Terran titles mean nothing to us."
Lances of energy speared from the clouds, leaving molten scars in the ground.
There were fools. But there were martyrs, too.
Thud, thud, thud! "Fools to the end!"
In a ruined citadel's underground shelter, the Black Templars' Centurion officer stepped over broken bodies. The fortress bore the scars of brutal assault, ferrosteel split and corpses strewn.
A thousand defenders had claimed to hold it. In truth, only six hundred fought—half the private armies of noble executives, half old loyalists of Arcturus's "Sons of Korhal."
For them, death was no excuse. At the Centurion's order, the last captives and wounded resisters were beheaded, blood pooling on the floor.
"Mark their names. Eradicate their lines."
The Black Templars were considered among the more restrained of the twenty Astartes Legions. But restraint was relative. Family of traitors were slaughtered as surely as the traitors themselves. In Selene's Empire, there was no mercy for kin.
Yet most of Korhal's defenders had already surrendered, walking out beneath white flags, hands raised.
Vrrrrm! Overhead, shadows swallowed the city. Plasma engines thundered as transports descended. Engineering crews deployed great teleport arrays. In moments, floods of auxilia and more Black Templars materialized into Augustgrad by the tens of thousands.
Channels filled with surrender orders, with contradictions from stubborn nobles and generals who still screamed to fight on. Valerian's decree played across personal comms. Images of surrender ceremonies from across Korhal crushed the last sparks of resistance.
Then the earth itself seemed to roar with a single cry:
"Long live the Empire!"
"For the Empress! For Selene!"
"Black Templars, we swear eternal loyalty! Death to the usurper!"
"All glory to Selene!"
...
It was the voices of Selene's warriors—shouts of triumph, the roar of another victory. From near and far, the chants rolled on, breaking the last fragments of Korhalan resolve. Even in the palace square of Augustgrad, the echoes crushed all thought of resistance.
"Hey, you're Ghosts?"
"What else?"
Nova Terra shrugged at the marine's half-jesting remark. Her youthful beauty stood out starkly in the temporary POW camp. She cracked open a can of beer, took a long pull, and replied:
"We're human too. Valerian I abdicated, so why should we fight to the death just because we're operatives? Hah… at least their treatment of prisoners isn't bad."
While other Korhal troops still hesitated, Nova and her Ghosts had been the first to step forward and surrender. In return, they were treated better than most.
"Boss? Aren't you afraid it's just a last meal before the execution?" one disarmed Ghost muttered.
"If they meant to kill us, why the trouble? Those giants carry themselves like nobles." Nova smiled faintly, gesturing toward the Black Templars lined up in flawless ranks.
In sheer presence, the Black Templars were among the most impressive Legions.
Titan-class war machines loomed nearby, steel titans flanking the formation. Thousands of warriors stood in ordered ranks, blades and spears glinting, while auxilia and servitor troops massed at their sides.
A crimson carpet ran between them. Centurion officers in ornate purple-gold armor stood shoulder to shoulder, helms tucked in the crook of their arms. The aquila sigils and medals on their breastplates gleamed, their silver hair carefully styled, violet eyes bright above noble features, carrying the melancholic charm of princes.
No wonder this Legion was beloved by women across the Empire.
Before them, bent and broken, Dominion generals laid down sidearms and ceremonial swords.
The scene was too grand to pass unrecorded.
Amid applause, robed scribes and court painters set up easels, capturing every detail in ink and brush. It was common across the Legions for artists, poets, and chroniclers to follow the armies—but in the Third Legion, under Leiva's leadership, it was cultivated into tradition.
Leiva prized discipline, order, and ceremony. Many of the Legion's first recruits had been noble sons, steeped in chivalric ideals. Under his command, their culture had fused into something unique: a blend of aristocracy, ritual, and martial brilliance.
Even their love of complex, multi-weapon tactics reflected it.
Only Hak Foo's 2nd Company was a little more reckless.
One officer shook his head. "A shame the Captain wasn't here for the ceremony."
Another coughed softly. "Well, the Captain's tastes… are different."
—
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