The skyship Javelin coasted just beneath the turbulence line, its hull cloaked in solar haze. Riven sat cross-legged on the navigation console, chewing on a wire sheath. Aeneas stood by the forward window, watching the fractured light of the twin suns scatter across the Obsidian Throne's underbelly.
"The Throne rotates once every six hours," Vesk said, arms folded. "Window opens for forty seconds."
"Plenty of time," Aeneas replied.
Riven snorted. "Plenty of time to die, maybe."
Below, the Throne came into view. It wasn't just a fortress—it was a judgment mechanism, built from forgotten tech and vengeance. Its core sent out pulses every quarter cycle—reminders to the lesser isles who still held dominion.
Aeneas turned to the others. "We breach the Auric Spine, plug into the Throne's heartline, and hijack the God Echo protocol. If we rewrite the broadcast vectors, we can transmit raw memory—unfiltered, undeniable—straight to every receiver in the system."
Vesk narrowed his eyes. "You're talking about flooding the entire world with truth. In real time."
Aeneas nodded. "Exactly."
Silence.
Then the alarms screamed.
The Javelin shook—an intercept fighter banked overhead, Council sigils blazing on its wings.
"They found us," Riven snapped, scrambling to the controls.
Outside, drone swarms spun from the clouds like ink in water. One slammed against their hull—another burst into sparks.
Aeneas locked eyes with Vesk. "We stay low and hit the Throne hard. We don't get another shot."
The skyship dove, the Throne looming like a god carved in iron.
Somewhere deep in Aeneas's mind, his sister's voice whispered—not memory, but instinct:
Don't flinch. Burn brighter.