The fifth year of the great war began beneath a heavy shroud of exhaustion that seemed to hang over every fleet, every soldier, and every star that had borne witness to the carnage.
Even the void itself — silent and infinite — seemed weary of the endless flashes of light and death that had scarred it for half a decade.
Though Lord Zarion finally managed to keep his forces from fracturing after Hedrik's merciless ambush on the deserters, that fragile unity came at a cost. The troops who returned to his side were loyal, yes — but their loyalty was born from fear and desperation, not faith. They were shadows of their former selves, carrying the ghosts of their fallen comrades in their eyes.
Instead of pushing forward as Zarion had hoped, the allied armies began constructing vast encampments on the worlds they had seized — cities of steel and rubble surrounded by shimmering shields.
