A month of feverish development vanished in the blink of an eye.
The academy on Ossus didn't sleep. Workshops glowed all night. Fresh-cut plates steamed under rune-heat. Druids argued with runemasters until the air tasted like ozone and sap. Soldiers drilled until their lungs learned new rhythms and their fear learned new limits.
Zelon's force wasn't just growing.
It was becoming doctrine.
They stopped calling everything "spells" or "tricks" and started organizing the new techniques into schools—simple categories that officers could teach, squads could rehearse, and whole battalions could deploy under fire.
The runemasters produced Personal Breath. A breathing pattern that drew the Force on the inhale and exhaled it through the pores, forming a persistent micro-shield around the body. It softened glancing hits, steadied the mind against crude panic-pressures, and bought seconds where seconds mattered. It had a limit, though—stamina bled fast, and the shield collapsed under sustained fire or prolonged strain, especially if a master-level mind probe bore down.
In the darker corners, Kael'thas and the warlocks developed their own tools. Dark Bolt condensed dark-side energy into a tight, stinging projectile. The wound wasn't always the worst part; those struck often felt a crawling distortion in their thoughts, as if fear had been seeded into them.
Void Elementals were discovered by mistake. A warlock tried to summon something familiar from his old world, and Ossus answered with absence given shape. The things drifted like shadow-water, muting sound and confidence wherever they passed.
Zelon dragged the druids into his experiments and turned his nature obsessions into battlefield technique. Forest Bloom forced rapid growth for cover and terrain control. Wood Spike launched hardened splinters from ground and bark. Leeching Vines bound limbs and drained strength and focus. Wood Golems created heavy, simple constructs meant to hold lines. Paralyzing Mist dulled movement and reaction, turning charges into stumbles.
Galadriel pushed for techniques disciplined soldiers could use without being mages. Fractured Strike reinforced a weapon swing or projectile into a single-point impact—like compressed gravity—meant to crack one spot instead of wasting force across armor. Hidden Mist broke sightlines and narrowed perception, forcing enemies to fight inside a shrinking bubble of awareness.
It wasn't perfection.
But it was consistency.
And consistency was what turned an army into a nation.
On the day of the transfer back to Northor, the ground around Horus's Holy Hearthtree trembled with the weight of bodies and intent.
Thousands gathered in ordered columns, armor catching pale light. The portal shimmered like a wound in reality, its edges throwing off a thin wind that smelled—faintly, unmistakably—of Northor's forests and iron-dust roads.
Boots hit the earth in waves, and the land answered with a low, constant vibration.
Farther out, on a ridge line, a handful of Ysanna watched from a distance. They didn't approach. They didn't speak. They simply stared at the impossible procession and the world-opening gate as if trying to decide whether surrender had saved them… or merely delayed something much larger.
Juana stood near Zelon with a datapad in hand, expression composed—yet the tightness around her eyes said everything.
This was a governor's nightmare.
"You're leaving me a city to build, a population to integrate, an industry to invent, and an entire system to lock down," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone.
Zelon didn't argue. He only nodded once.
Galadriel, Kael'thas, and a selected mage cadre would remain on Ossus to continue research. Ood Bnar would stay to train force-capable recruits in proper discipline. Drogula would remain with enough dwarves to keep construction moving. Horus would seal the Adega System the moment the last major column passed through.
Ossus would become a hidden cradle.
Then the report came.
A dark elf approached, voice low and urgent. "My lord. Northor is moving. Rebels and military have begun fighting at the border of Yuonin forest."
Zelon's gaze sharpened. "Cause?"
"A rebel operative stole data from a military outpost and destroyed the facility with charges. Both sides are mobilizing hard."
So it had begun.
Zelon didn't smile—but somewhere deep in the link between tree and throne, Horus did.
Zelon raised his arm.
"Transfer starts now. All formations through Elenarda. No delays."
The portal widened. The air around it flexed. The first ranks marched into the shimmering light, and the sound was not footsteps anymore—it was a drumline of war.
Zelon reached out through the bond.
Tia. Prepare the armor sets.
Tiamat's reply came crisp. Already moving. Equinox is ready for distribution.
Dwinley's craftsmen had built it to make Zelon's forces look like a people—not a raiding party.
Equinox was layered cloth and hardened plate. The outer robes were woven from altered plant fiber—tear-resistant, heat-resistant, and briefly tolerant against plasma contact. Findus-wood infused plates reinforced chest and shoulders; arms and legs were fully armored. A runic battery core absorbed sunlight to power temperature regulation, minor self-repair, short-range comms, a small oxygen reserve, and a modest personal shield.
It wouldn't let a soldier duel a Sith.
But it would let them live long enough to matter.
Jahama appeared as if he'd been present the whole time and the eye had simply refused to notice him.
"Jahama," Zelon said without turning fully, "take your Khainite assassins. Hunt lead officers from both factions. Quiet. No signatures. Make it look like they're cutting each other apart."
Jahama dropped to one knee. "As you command."
Blurred figures flickered into being behind him—then vanished—slipping into the portal like a rumor entering a crowd.
Kael'thas approached next, watched closely by Ninnien and Calemiriel.
"My lord," Kael'thas said carefully, "people like that will be the first to betray you."
Zelon's eyes settled on him. No anger. No theatrics. Just a cold, measured certainty.
He lifted one hand.
The pressure dropped—not on the ground, but in the air itself.
Kael'thas's breath caught as if the room had become deeper water. Leaves and small shoots burst from cracks in the stone floor around Zelon's boots—fast, aggressive growth, not gentle spring. The message wasn't "I'm powerful."
The message was: I decide whether you get to breathe.
Zelon released it just as quickly.
"I trust you the same way," he said softly. "By usefulness. By leverage. By consequence."
Kael'thas swallowed, sweat beading at his brow. "Understood, my lord."
"Good. Then do your work."
Inside Elenarda, the transfer became a river. Columns moved from the great tree-gate to the smaller connection trees, disappearing in disciplined waves toward Northor. The castle world—once quiet and empty—now rang with armor steps and clipped orders, banners snapping in portal wind that shouldn't exist.
When Zelon finally stepped through with his guards and silent escort, the air on the other side changed instantly—colder, heavier, smelling of wet soil and distant smoke.
Northor.
And trouble.
On the border of Yuonin forest, Lance reached the final ladder and held position, listening.
Above, voices murmured. Boots shifted in leaves. Someone's breath was held too long.
A rebel voice crackled over comms. "Agent Lance—we're ready for you. Come up fast. Then we fight our way out."
Lance tightened his grip on the ladder and began to climb.
He pushed the manhole up with his shoulder and pulled himself into the night.
For one heartbeat, the forest was still.
Then the first blaster bolt cut through the trees.