I. The Scholar of Empires
The wind howled across the scaffolded upper deck of the Second Mothership, scattering ash and vapor trails left by Luminary exhaust vents. Above, the war-fleet stretched in long black veins across orbit, while below, the billion-strong legions of the Shadowscourge marched in perfect synchrony.
Vaelora Duskthorn, cloaked in shadowlace and wisdom, watched it all—not with awe, but with remembrance.
It always begins like this, she mused. Monuments to ambition, powered by bones and silence.
Her eyes narrowed on the insect-like movement of Kirells far below—enslaved, whipped, and driven by shock-staffs as they dragged resource carts across plasma rails. They were diminutive, stooped from generations of servitude. Yet still they moved. Still they survived.
A flicker of memory crossed her mind—ancient glyphs from the Scrolls of Voth, civilizations buried under the weight of their own shadows. The Kirell were no different than those long-lost servants who built wonders for dead gods. And she knew what awaited them.
When the mothership is complete, the Kirell will be discarded. Purged. Their purpose will end the moment their usefulness does. As all lesser species.
Unless…
She raised her hand slowly.
Two Shadowscourge soldiers, mid-formation, halted without hesitation. Their armor shimmered with shadow essence, their steps utterly silent.
"Bring me the two Kirells that escorted me to the surface," Vaelora commanded, her voice rich with intent. "Even gods require attendants… and ants know how to serve."
The Shadowscourge bowed, their helms casting reflections of voidlight. Within seconds, they vanished into the descending lifts.
Vaelora turned from the edge, her voice quiet but clear to herself:
"I will study them. Mold them. Perhaps they'll remember something long after all this burns."
II. Beneath the Mask
The Kirells arrived—escorted and confused, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and reverence. Their spines curled instinctively, knowing not whether death or servitude awaited.
Vaelora descended a few steps toward them, studying them like a curator inspecting a forgotten relic.
"What are your names?" she asked, though she knew it was unlikely they even spoke the court tongue fluently.
The smaller of the two, trembling, managed: "T-Tamun… this is Je'ka."
"Tamun and Je'ka," she repeated, tasting the names. "You are now mine. No one will touch you, no one will command you. You will walk in the shadow of a Whisperer. And in return… you will observe everything. Remember everything."
She leaned in, her glowing violet eyes locking onto theirs.
"When this empire forgets its soul, you will whisper it back into being."
III. The Whisperer's Path
That night, as the dark moons of Darcile passed overhead, Vaelora walked alone beneath the corelight columns of the mothership's central chamber. Behind her trailed Tamun and Je'ka, still afraid, but now cloaked in servant-robes of dusk silk.
Whispers from the court would circulate in time. That the Whisperer one of the most feared agents of the Empire had taken pets.
But Vaelora knew the truth.
"Empires are not preserved through conquest," she whispered to herself, "but through memory. Even gods need witnesses."
And as the final crucible cycle ticked down toward activation, Vaelora Duskthorn's first threads of manipulation were already spinning into the Mahasimu web.