Somewhere in the Blue Spire Galaxy, a spaceship drifted through a dense asteroid belt. On its hull gleamed a crimson insignia, two claw marks slashed in the shape of an X. A silent warning to all who saw it: this vessel belonged to the Ferans, one of the strongest races in the galaxy.
[Vaelix Ranthor's PoV]
I scrolled through the streams of data points, the faint glow of the holo-screen reflecting against my face. The reports came from the eastern quadrant of the front lines, skirmishes against the Eternals, casualty counts, energy expenditure, victory margins.
The numbers didn't lie. We were holding, yes… but only barely.
I clenched my jaw. The Nagas were pulling ahead again, their warriors eclipsing ours. The best of their generation had already begun reaching heights that ours still struggled to touch. For all our ferocity, for all the Ferans' power, we were lagging.
Not for long.
