The skies above Zelkaris, the jewel of the Liberation Army, were a turbulent canvas—storm clouds brewed between the moons, casting violet streaks of static lightning over the city's crystalline spires. Deep within the mountain-encased base of the Liberation Army, the air was heavy with tension.
Inside the War Dome—an ancient Zypherian structure buried under centuries of dust and reinforced with modern steel—seven shadows stood around a pulsing holomap of the Lilliput Star System.
The hologram shimmered, marking three major factions:
Scorched Branch, bold red, pulsing from their citadel in Vokar-17.
Eyrvaks, silent and elusive, marked in blue—whispers behind enemy lines.
And the green, widespread marks—The Liberation Army, stretched across a dozen shattered planets, with Zelkaris as its heart.
At the center stood Arco.
He was no myth like Laco, no hidden cloak or artificial mask. Arco could be seen clearly—short black hair brushed back, thin-lined scars across his jaw—but no one could say who he truly was. Some swore he had been on the frontlines during the Fall of Solion, others believed he was exiled royalty, and more whispered he was not from the Lilliput system at all.
But none doubted this: Arco commanded loyalty.
Around him stood his inner circle—each one a weapon forged in the fires of rebellion:
Quorrax, the infiltration tactician, eyes sharp, voice calm, fingers constantly tapping as if planning twelve moves ahead. "If this meeting fails," he said, "the Vir Empire won't need to crush us. We'll do it for them through division."
Vaarn, thick with armor plates and battle rage, cracked his neck. "Let 'em try. If Scorched Branch or the Eyrvaks don't cooperate, I'll make them."
Garvin, the medic and codebreaker, leaned over the console, feeding intercepted transmissions into a decryption pad. "I've already detected three spikes in Vir activity near Vokar. They're watching us. Closely."
Karjax, stoic and grim, once commander of the Royal Guard before defecting, spoke with the caution of someone who'd seen too many betrayals. "They'll want to strike during the meeting itself. An ambush. Like they did in the Second Cleansing."
Zerlan, never speaking unless necessary, stood silent at the edge, cleaning his long-range plasma rifle. His expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked up once—acknowledging he'd be ready.
The room fell quiet. All turned to Arco.
He placed a hand on the console. The hologram zoomed in on the upcoming council site in Narlak's Maw.
His voice was clear, colder than expected.
"This meeting will decide the fate of the system. It will either unite the flames, or scatter ashes across the stars."
Quorrax stepped forward. "If we can synchronize efforts from Vokar-17 to here, we can surround the Empire's grip point—Cradle Sector—within 17 hours of coordination."
Karjax nodded. "Only if the Scorched Branch accepts coordinated command. Eyrvaks too. They don't follow orders. They follow ghosts."
Garvin frowned. "And if it's a trap? If the meeting's a staged leak to draw us out?"
Arco didn't flinch.
"Then we die together, not apart."
The hologram dimmed.
Outside the dome, warships rumbled in the sky. Across the Lilliput Star System, the three rebel flames moved toward convergence.
In the heart of Narlak's Maw, beneath the dense veil of magnetic storms and drifting debris, the strategic chamber flickered to life. The dim lighting pulsed against the obsidian walls as each monitor began projecting a soft emerald hue.
Seated at the long, curving table of hardened zypherium alloy were the assembled commanders — each from a corner of rebellion, each with a piece of the galaxy's soul.
Rovin, leader of the Scorched Branch, sat at the helm — his crimson cloak flowing behind him like embers in wind. His eyes, battle-worn yet focused, scanned the room calmly. Beside him stood Mek'lar, his voice always ready to cut the silence with wit, but for now, quiet in anticipation.
Across from them sat the towering figure of Jason Amberdenk, the legendary leader of the Verdalians. With silver hair cascading like threads of starlight and emerald skin shimmering under the faint light, he radiated both wisdom and strength. His calm presence anchored the room.
To his right sat Captain Shin, the fierce Verdalian pilot whose loyalty had turned the tide in more than one skirmish.
On his left, the youngest among the elite, Captain Jigo of the Z4 ships, leaned forward with eyes blazing. Next to him sat the elegant and composed Lady Louis, and further down the table, Lady Lina — the navigator who had guided the entire Verdalian fleet across fifty-five light years of hostile space to reach this moment. A feat whispered as legend already, achieved without a single casualty.
Despite their humanoid features, the Verdalians were unmistakable — their glowing green skin and otherworldly silver hair marked them as children of Verdalia, the guardians of nature's final stronghold.
Above the table, a floating projection began to pulse, indicating that the other factions — the Eyrvaks from Ashen Mountains and the Liberation Army from Zelkaris — were preparing to join.
Lady Lina, her voice like gentle wind over rivers, whispered, "All paths... led to this moment."
Rovin placed a hand on the cold table. "Then let us prepare. The stars await our answer."
Jason closed his eyes and nodded. "For Verdalia… for all of Lilliput."
A hush fell over the room as the final codes were entered, and the galaxy's most important meeting in centuries was about to begin.
High in the jagged peaks of the Ashen Mountains, where snow fell like ash and the wind whispered of ancient wars, the great hall of the Eyrvaks stood carved into the mountain's heart — a fortress of stone and spirit.
Within its cold, torch-lit chamber, the leaders of the mountain resistance gathered in silence around a circular obsidian table. Despite the chill, the air was thick with tension and reverence.
Targan, the grim and fearless Leader of the Eyrvaks, sat at the head — his broad shoulders cloaked in black hide, eyes scarred by a lifetime of resistance. Beside him stood Ka'roth, his right hand and the sharpest blade of the highlands, his presence commanding silence even among giants.
To their right sat Bill, once presumed lost in the belly of Roouch's terror — now reborn through fire. His face bore the signs of pain and healing, but his gaze was resolute.
Beside him was Rom, the flame-hearted sniper who had dragged wounded comrades through hellfire to safety, and Krith, the quiet Zypherian strategist whose voice could rally entire battalions when he chose to speak.
And there, almost out of place yet unmistakably vital, stood Jodu — the enigmatic right hand of Rovin himself. Cloaked in shadow and myth, Jodu was the one who had defied Roouch's wrath, pulled Bill from the depths of the command center, and vanished before alarms could scream. His return to the Ashen Mountains had been quiet… but not unnoticed.
Targan looked at Jodu and nodded, the smallest of acknowledgments between warriors who never bowed.
"You crossed the fire to bring him back," Targan said in his gravelled tone.
"I did," Jodu replied, voice calm and clipped. "Because fire alone cannot kill a rebellion. It only tempers it."
Ka'roth grunted in approval. "Then it's time."
Bill rose slightly. "The others are already gathered in Narlak's Maw. This is our moment."
With a wave of Ka'roth's hand, a large crystalline monitor embedded into the stone wall pulsed to life. Holograms shimmered. Codes ran in glowing lines. The Inter-Alliance Strategic Transmission Protocol was activating.
A silence fell again — one not of tension, but of purpose.
The three factions — Zypherian, Verdalian, and Eyrvak — were now all in position.
The war for the galaxy's future… was ready to begin.