The victory at the Leviathan spread like wildfire. On the core worlds of Ashoka's empire, cities erupted in celebration. Banners unfurled, songs filled the air, and in every tavern, soldiers raised cups in his name. Children played in the streets, waving wooden swords, pretending to slay shadow beasts. For the first time in years, hope shone brighter than fear.
But hope was fragile. And the Council of Shadows knew exactly how to break it.
Far beyond the safety of the core, in the quiet border world of Narakal, dawn broke over endless farmlands and silver rivers. The people there lived simple lives, untouched by the wars of empires. Farmers tilled the soil. Children chased the sunrise. Merchants bargained in crowded squares. Few even believed the Shadows were real.
They learned the truth in fire.
The sky tore open as the first of the Harbinger Fleet descended. These were no ordinary warships—they were nightmares of design, jagged and black, each one shaped like a blade meant to carve worlds. Their arrival blotted out the sun, plunging Narakal into a premature dusk.
Without warning, the bombardment began.
Columns of crimson fire rained from the heavens, tearing through fields and villages. Cities burned in an instant, towers collapsing into molten ruins. The rivers boiled, the ground split, and screams filled the air. The Harbingers did not come to conquer. They came to destroy.
In orbit, Narakal's modest defense fleet rose to fight—outdated ships, their hulls trembling against the Harbingers' might. They fought bravely, but bravery was nothing against shadow-forged weapons. One by one, their ships shattered into sparks against the night.
On the ground, survivors fled into the forests, carrying only what they could hold. Mothers clutched children. Elders fell behind, refusing to slow the young. Everywhere, fire chased them.
By the time the bombardment ended, Narakal was a graveyard.
And it was only the beginning.
The Harbingers struck world after world along Ashoka's borders. Some were industrial colonies, their foundries reduced to ash. Others were trading hubs, their markets annihilated. In each case, the Shadows left nothing but ruins and silence, their fleets vanishing into the void before Ashoka's forces could arrive.
On the Indraprastha, Meera delivered the reports with a trembling voice. "Narakal… gone. Serath… burned. Kaelor… its entire population missing. Over a million lives in less than a week."
Ashoka's fists clenched until his knuckles went white. His eyes burned, not with fear, but with fury. "They mean to break us with terror. To remind us that victory is not safety."
Arhaan slammed his fist against the console. "Then we remind them what terror feels like when the hunted bites back! Give me ten ships, Ashoka. I'll track these butchers into the void and carve their black hearts out!"
But Meera shook her head. "That's exactly what they want. They strike and vanish, drawing us into the dark. If we chase blindly, we will bleed ourselves dry."
Ashoka stood silent for a long time, the weight of choice pressing down like a mountain. His people looked to him not just as a warrior, but as the empire's shield. If he failed now, the fire of Narakal would spread to every world under his banner.
Finally, his voice cut through the silence like steel:
"Summon the war council. Every general, every governor, every ally who swore their oath. The Council of Shadows believes they can tear us apart one world at a time."
He turned to the viewport, watching the stars burn.
"Let them come. They will not find scattered prey. They will find an empire united."
And in his eyes, there was no hesitation, no fear. Only fire.