His gaze, dark and pensive, seemed to probe all the possible consequences of this mission. If the signal truly was of Esthérian origin, then an ancient danger was stirring once more. And he had just entrusted the fate of the Consortium to the only man capable of facing that threat.

  Seated on his imposing throne of black granite, at the very top of his tower, General Varek Ryden stared out at the frozen expanse of the planet through the vast panoramic window of his headquarters. The tower, rising from the heart of a snow-covered plain and encircled by immense spires of ice, was ceaselessly battered by a howling blizzard. Its charcoal-black architecture, carved into the shape of a sharpened blade pointed at the sky, evoked the vestiges of a medieval past steeped in mystery and blood. This austere fortress was the undisputed symbol of his power and authority.

  The biting cold, which made the outer walls of the tower creak and groan, had no effect on the General’s sophisticated armor. Designed to withstand the most extreme environments, this metallic carapace—with its broad, rounded pauldrons—was draped in a massive cloak of thick fur, testament to his love of the hunt and his nature as a predator lurking in the shadows.

  Varek had not chosen this world at random.

  No—this frozen planet was far more than a mere military stronghold.

  It was a living memorial.

  Here, on this inhospitable desert of ice, he had wrested his legend from the hands of fate. Situated on the fringes of the Dravhenn Nebula, this frozen sphere had once been the stage of the Rebellion Alliance’s final, decisive defeat—a battle that had changed the destiny of the entire Orion Arm.

  Ryden, ever the strategist, had turned the terrain’s natural traps to his advantage, luring the enemy into perfectly orchestrated ambushes. The environment—once seen as an obstacle—had become his most formidable ally. The victory he won here had sealed the outcome of the conflict, extinguishing the last embers of rebellion and granting the Consortium an undisputed triumph.

  Since that day, the name Varek Ryden had become synonymous with relentless strategy and inevitable victory.

  The General straightened slightly, his multifaceted black eyes fixed on the white, storm-torn horizon. The memory of that battle fed his determination. Soon, he would go to war again—and once more, failure would have no place.

  The throne room, vast and austere, stretched out like a sanctuary of ice and steel, steeped in implacable solemnity. At its center, upon a raised platform of raw-cut black marble, stood the seat of power: a colossal throne with angular lines, sculpted from a dark alloy and engraved with scenes of past battles. It seemed more than a mere seat—it was a monument to the glory of General Varek Ryden.

  A deep purple carpet, dark as an open wound, ran from the entrance to the foot of the dais, guiding visitors like a trail of blood toward their destiny. The walls, black as the void, were adorned with banners bearing the general’s emblem: a stylized claw piercing a shattered star—the symbol of order imposed through force.

  Above the throne, the titanic skull of an alien creature, with curved fangs and hollow, gaping eye sockets, loomed over the hall. A relic from a legendary hunt, this trophy bore witness to Ryden’s ruthless victories and reminded all who entered that no predator escaped his pursuit.

  Behind the dais, a gigantic viewing window revealed the frozen panorama of the outside world. The blizzard, constant and merciless, whipped the ice peaks with white, screaming fury, but remained powerless against the black tower. The landscape, frozen beneath the stars, cast a pale, spectral light into the hall, where shifting shadows danced along the walls like ghosts of the past.

  Varek Ryden, standing before this sea of ice, contemplated his domain with a glacial calm. His antennae quivered at the faint vibrations that moved through the air, and his black eyes captured every nuance of light as if trying to read the secrets of the wind.

  With measured steps, he returned to his throne and sat down, his armor clinking softly against the armrests. His gaze remained fixed on the frozen horizon for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he laid his powerful fingers on the control panel hidden in the armrest. The intercom activated with a discreet crackle, ready to carry his will throughout the fortress.

  The general’s voice broke the silence—deep, sharp, leaving no room for hesitation:

  “Delta Unit, prepare for assault. Have its commander report to the Throne Room immediately.”

  The order, clear and implacable, rippled through the bowels of the fortress like a shockwave. In an instant, disciplined calm gave way to a controlled surge of activity. Like a perfectly synchronized swarm, the soldiers began to move, each one knowing their role and protocols by heart.

  The air, once still, now vibrated with contained urgency. Marching boots rang through steel corridors, weapons were checked, armor systems powered up. Varek Ryden’s SuperNovae were not a regular unit—they were a silent terror, renowned for unflinching brutality and devastating efficiency.

  From his throne, Varek observed the preparations with an impassive stare. His antennae trembled, sensing each micro-vibration carried by the rising tide of movement. Every step, every murmured order, every breath carried that specific tension that precedes major battles.

  A few minutes later, silence fell once more as the throne room’s heavy doors opened with a metallic groan. A silhouette appeared in the icy light. The commander of Delta Unit advanced with a firm stride and bowed before the general, ready to receive his orders.

  “Commander,” Varek said, his voice like carved stone, “the time has come. Oberon V awaits us.”

  “Oberon V? Understood, General. What is our objective?”

  “An abnormal energy signal has been detected by our sensors. Its signature is unknown. Your mission is to locate the source, identify its origin, understand its function, and eliminate any threat. If this energy represents a danger… destroy it.”

  “Understood, General. Delta Unit is ready and awaiting your signal.”

  Varek Ryden nodded slowly, his mandibles shifting in a gesture of restrained approval.

  “Excellent. You depart in one hour.”

  The commander snapped a precise salute and turned to leave, but halted when the general’s voice cut through the air once more.

  “One last thing, Commander. This order comes directly from President Valor. No mistake will be tolerated.”

  The commander squared his shoulders, his eyes shining with unshakable resolve.

  “Understood, General. Our success is assured.”

  Varek studied him for a brief moment, weighing the conviction in his gaze, then inclined his head.

  “I expect a detailed report after every major development. You may go.”

  With a final, crisp salute, the commander left the hall. The massive door closed behind him with a deep rumble, leaving Varek alone with the storm battering the viewing window. The blizzard’s muffled howl seemed to echo his thoughts.

  The general drew a long breath, his obsidian eyes fixed on the endless white. Oberon V was not merely a curiosity… it could well be the opening move of a war the Consortium had not anticipated.

  Varek’s antennae trembled almost imperceptibly, as if the very atmosphere carried the shadow of an impending threat. The detected energy spike was no trivial anomaly. Its signature was familiar—disturbingly so—yet still impossible to identify with certainty. A flaw in the cosmic silence.

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  The general clenched his fists, his gauntlets creaking under the pressure. An unknown force, emerging from a world presumed dead, could not be ignored. He knew all too well the nature of such unpredictable signals: they often heralded cataclysmic events.

  And Varek Ryden was not the type to wait for the storm to hit.

  He preferred to be the one striking first.

  With a decisive gesture, he activated the holoprojector built into his throne’s armrest. A three-dimensional map of the Oberon system unfolded before him, bathing his face in a cold blue glow.

  “Oberon V…” he murmured, his gaze turning razor sharp. “If you bear the mark of the Esthérian’s… I will burn you to ashes.”

  On the arid planet, scoured by sand-laden winds, the team was methodically combing through the depths of the ancient temple. The chair—once the source of so much terror—now remained strangely inert. No trace of energy pulsed within it, as if yesterday’s mysterious awakening had been nothing more than a mirage.

  Each member worked at a console, hunting for the faintest clue about the purpose of this place and the experiments conducted here. Screens, covered in enigmatic symbols, challenged their understanding, but the team pressed on with silent determination.

  Only Adam had not been allowed back inside the structure. The ordeal he had suffered the day before, and the risks linked to his presence, had convinced the others to keep him outside. He had therefore stationed himself near the entrance, studying the cliff walls in search of other possible access points.

  The pale sun, veiled by dust, cast a diffuse light over the surrounding cliffs. Adam narrowed his eyes, following the carved lines in the rock. Now and then, a faint hum reverberated in the air, like a distant echo from the past.

  Suddenly, a deep rumble tore through the silence.

  Adam snapped his head up. The opalescent blue sky was streaked with several luminous trails. Fast, metallic objects carved through the atmosphere, leaving blazing wakes behind them. Their speed was astounding—and their trajectory, direct.

  His heart lurched. This wasn’t a meteor shower.

  These paths were too precise… too intentional.

  Too threatening.

  He grabbed his radio and tried to contact the team inside the structure.

  “This is Adam,” he called, tension tightening his voice. “I have visual on multiple fast-approaching objects. I repeat, several craft are heading straight for our position.”

  Radio silence answered him. Heavy, oppressive.

  Adam tried again. Once. Twice. No response. The cliff’s rock and alien structure seemed to act as a natural jammer, smothering every signal. Time was slipping away. He had no other choice.

  He took a deep breath, cast one last look at the sky scarred by burning trails, then sprinted into the temple. His footsteps rang out on the metal floor, each strike echoing off the silent walls.

  As he burst into the central fresco chamber, he nearly collided with Kiran, who was crouched, studying the intricate details of the wall.

  “Adam?!” Kiran exclaimed, springing to his feet, eyes wide in surprise. “What are you doing here? We agreed you wouldn’t set foot in this place again! It’s too risky, you know that.”

  “The risk comes from somewhere else,” Adam shot back, breathless, his voice taut. “I tried to warn you, but all comms are dead.”

  Kiran frowned, confused.

  “Wait… slow down. What are you talking about? There’s no one here. This world’s been dead for centuries.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Adam grabbed his friend by the shoulder and locked eyes with him, worry burning in his gaze.

  “I saw ships. Several. They broke through the atmosphere and they’re heading straight for us.”

  Kiran’s expression faltered, flickering between disbelief and fear.

  A deep rumble, muffled by the temple’s walls, confirmed Adam’s words.

  The hunt had begun.

  Zena, alerted by the sound, appeared from the corridor leading to the column chamber. Her golden eyes swept the room, searching for the source of the disturbance, before landing on Adam.

  “Adam?! What are you doing in here?”

  “No time to explain! Where are Koros and Eamon?”

  The urgency in his voice wrapped around her throat like a vice.

  “They’re… at the consoles, near the column,” she managed, still stunned.

  Adam didn’t wait for her to finish. He bolted down the passage toward the archaeologists.

  Another rumble, louder this time, shook the walls and showered them with a fine rain of dust from the ceiling. The floor seemed to waver beneath their feet.

  “By all the stars…” Zena whispered, frozen in place, as Adam, driven by adrenaline, vanished into the corridor.

  He burst into the main chamber and spotted the two scientists still absorbed in their work. Koros, the onyx-skinned android, adjusted a complex scanner while Eamon, the old Azarien researcher, deciphered the data displayed on a console. Neither had paid any attention to the chaos outside.

  “Koros! Eamon! Drop everything and get ready to evacuate!”

  Eamon looked up, confused.

  “What’s going on? An earthquake?”

  “No—ships! Unknown craft just entered the atmosphere.”

  Koros froze for a fraction of a second, his internal sensors confirming the abnormal vibrations.

  Adam’s gaze met Eamon’s. Disbelief gave way to a cold, creeping terror.

  “We’re leaving. Now!”

  Back in the fresco hall, Kiran and Zena were frantically gathering gear and salvaging their precious data. Their movements were precise, but their nervousness was palpable.

  In the adjoining chamber, Eamon and Koros exchanged a stunned look.

  “So soon? Impossible…” Fedrus muttered, short of breath.

  “It can only be the Consortium,” Koros’s synthetic voice crackled. “We must flee—immediately.”

  “Wait! I have to shut the system down first! If the Consortium gets their hands on this data—”

  He cut himself off as another rumble, even closer than the previous ones, shook the structure. Dust rolled off the ceiling in suffocating clouds while the consoles went dark in a sudden flicker, knocked out by the shockwave.

  “No time, Doc! We’re moving!” Adam shouted, adrenaline surging.

  “At least close the access behind us!” Fedrus insisted.

  “Got it. Let’s go!” Adam replied, already sprinting down the corridor toward the exit.

  The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly. Each step pounded like a panicked heartbeat. At last, the group emerged from the Esthérian complex. The sun struck them full force, blinding them for a moment.

  Still panting, Adam turned and activated the hidden mechanism he’d discovered the day before. The door began to slide shut with flawless smoothness… then stopped halfway.

  “Damn it! Why is it stuck?!”

  “Out of power, maybe?” Zena suggested, eyes fixed on the structure. “The consoles were already flickering earlier.”

  “Makes sense,” Eamon said. “The chair’s activation yesterday drained an absurd amount of energy.”

  “Too bad. We’re out of here!” Kiran barked.

  “Yeah—move!” Adam agreed.

  Koros, lingering for a moment, glanced up at the sky before asking:

  “Their trajectories suggest reconnaissance patterns. Why this urgency?”

  Adam swallowed hard and stared at the horizon.

  “A gut feeling. I can feel it—we need to leave. Now.”

  A deafening roar suddenly split the heavens, louder and different from the previous sounds. A shockwave rippled through the air, lifting a cloud of sand.

  “No, no, no… damn it!” Eamon swore, his face going pale.

  “What is it, Doc?” Zena asked, terror tightening her voice.

  Eamon drew in a shaky breath.

  “A troop transport… They’re here.”

  “Who? Who’s here, Doc? Why a troop transport?” Zena pressed, panic rising.

  “The Consortium.”

  “The Consortium? But why would they come here?” Kiran shot in, disbelief creeping into his voice.

  “It doesn’t matter!” Adam cut in, realizing every second counted. “We’re out of time—we have to run. Now!”

  “He’s right! We must reach the ship at once,” Koros agreed.

  Four long kilometers separated them from the camp, from their vessel—their only way off this world. Behind them, the threat was descending, relentless.

  Adam looked up at the troop transport as it slowly descended through the atmosphere. It was a colossus of steel, a massive shape with an almost organic silhouette. It appeared split into three distinct sections: an upper module shaped like an inverted saucer of spectral gray, smooth and ominous; a central core of black metal studded with countless points of light like distant stars; and below, a half-oval of the same pale, ghostly gray as the upper hull.

  The ship cut through Oberon V’s arid sky like a harbinger of doom, its titanic shadow stretching across the sandy plain where the fugitives were running for their lives. The low, rumbling growl of its engines rolled on and on, making the air vibrate and the sand jump beneath their feet. All around them, the shrill cry of fighter craft tore through the atmosphere, buzzing like a swarm of furious insects circling their prey.

  As Adam watched the terrifying spectacle closing in, a memory slammed into him.

  The conversation with Eamon. The information extracted from Tcherk-To. The secrecy of their mission.

  And then, like a revelation, it hit him:

  Their excavation had been discovered.

  But how?

  Tcherk-To, no doubt...

  That damned talker must have sold them out.