The main viewport of the Tartarusios flickers with static, then sharp visuals: a sleek, black vessel—the Orbiton—bursts from the enemy ship, its hull reflecting the eerie glow of nearby starfields. Energy ripples pulse from its engines, lighting the surrounding debris in strobing blues and reds.
Empire's Main Ship
Emilia Rozasar stands on the bridge, Her silver-threaded uniform shimmered under the low lighting of the command deck, each stitch a testament to rank, legacy, and the weight of imperial expectation. The fabric clung to her frame with tailored precision, catching the ambient glow of the ship's systems like moonlight on steel — elegant, but unmistakably martial.
Her hair, a cascade of vivid crimson, framed her face with deliberate defiance. It wasn't the soft red of courtly fashion, but the kind of red that burned — like warning lights, like blood spilled for duty. Strands flickered in the artificial breeze of the ventilation system, alive with motion, as if echoing the fire that lived behind her eyes.
Those eyes — obsidian black, deep and unreadable — were narrowed in focused determination. They didn't dart or flicker. They locked. They calculated. They commanded. When Emilia looked at you, it wasn't a glance — it was a verdict. Her gaze held the quiet fury of someone who had been underestimated too many times and had made a habit of proving people wrong.
She was young, yes — barely past twenty-five — but the air around her carried the gravity of someone twice her age. A commander by merit, a countess by blood, and a force of nature by choice. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and deliberate, each word chosen like a weapon. She didn't shout to be heard. She didn't need to.
. Around her, consoles beep and alarms scream. Crew members scramble, hands flying over panels.
"Fire! Destroy that ship and the Orbiton! Energy output at maximum!" Emilia commands.
A massive energy cannon hums, glowing brighter, releasing a concentrated blast toward the Orbiton—but the black ship twists impossibly, skimming the edge of destruction. Shockwaves ripple across the fleet. Twelve ships are gone in a blink. The bridge quivers.
"The enemy ship… it's initiating its leap engine!" a lieutenant shouts. Smoke and sparks streak across the ceiling as the remaining fleet retreats.
Zellion Space Station
The Empire's fleet limps into the orbit of Zellion Space Station. Docking bays open with mechanical precision, welcoming the battered ships.
Director Blain, tall and formal, approaches Emilia. "Lady Emilia Rozasar, it's an honor to have you here."
Emilia's black eyes are sharp. "We need rapid repairs, Director. Time is critical."
Blain gestures to the bustling repair crews, who already begin disassembling damaged turrets and hull plating.
"This was unexpected," she says, voice low. "Twelve ships… gone."
Emilia's expression hardens. "We underestimated them. The ALTOPEREH… it's more powerful than we imagined."
Terrian Empire – Fansilia Capital
The Consul Chamber rose like a monument to power itself. Vast and austere, it stretched upward in solemn silence, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, as if even the architecture refused to speak without permission. Light streamed through towering windows carved from reinforced crystal, casting long, angular beams across the polished obsidian floor. Beyond the glass, the capital's skyline shimmered — a sea of spires and domes, gleaming like the crown jewels of a restless empire.
Inside, the air was thick with restraint. Advisors and generals stood in clusters, their voices low, their words measured. No one shouted here. No one dared. Every murmur was a calculation, every glance a maneuver. The walls, lined with ancient banners and metallic reliefs of past victories, seemed to listen — and remember.
At the far end of the chamber, beneath a massive sigil of the Empire carved in gold and shadow, the Consul's throne stood elevated on a dais of black stone. It wasn't ornate. It didn't need to be. Its presence alone was enough — a seat not of comfort, but of judgment. The man who sat there would not rest. He would rule.
With the quiet gravity of a man who had shaped the empire from behind velvet curtains and iron doors, his presence was felt before a single word was spoken. In his early sixties, Alan bore the marks of a lifetime spent in service to the Emperor — not in scars or medals, but in the way his spine remained straight, his gaze unwavering, and his silence more commanding than most speeches.
His hair, cropped short and silvered with age, clung to discipline rather than vanity. It was the kind of cut worn by men who had no time for frills — only function. His face, carved by years of political storms and sleepless nights, was broad and stern, with deep lines etched across his brow like fault lines in stone. His eyes, a steely gray, held the weight of secrets too dangerous to speak aloud. They didn't flicker. They didn't soften. They assessed.
Alan's uniform was always immaculate — a deep navy coat trimmed in gold, the fabric heavy with tradition and tailored to perfection. The insignia of the Empire rested over his heart, polished daily, not for show but for reverence. When he moved, it was with the precision of a man who had spent decades navigating war rooms, diplomatic summits, and the Emperor's private chambers. Every gesture was deliberate. Every pause, calculated.
"We face a threat unlike any before," Alan announces, voice steady but tense. "The ALTOPEREH."
A hush falls. Consul members shift in their chairs, eyes wide with concern. Sir Roland, half-dressed from his pool break, mutters in disbelief. Lady Wistoria adjusts her uniform, tense but poised.
Outside the chamber, holographic projections of the Orbiton streak through space, black and almost spectral against the stars, leaving trails of energy like tears through the cosmos. The Empire's future hangs by a thread, and only those at the Consul know the full scale of the threat.