Rise with me, children of the Throne. Rise, and let the heavens burn with our unity."
The words struck the chamber like hammer blows. The robed assembly bowed their heads in unison, crimson hoods dipping as though the very weight of eternity pressed them down.
The ghostfires flared brighter, their blue tongues stretching higher, as if the Flame itself had answered.
And in that moment, the Edict of Ashes was sealed—not as mere speech, but as scripture.
The chamber’s echoes had not yet faded when the High Orator withdrew.
The seal of the Flame and Ouroboros still glowed upon the Curia wall, but already the people in the plazas below craned their necks toward the heavens.
They waited for the sign—the rising of the Orator’s vessel, the sermon written in steel.
The Serpent’s Crown stirred upon its launch cradle, crimson hull gleaming with gold filigree, black panels swallowing the light. Its twin prongs reached forward like venomous fangs, and when its engines roared to life, the sound was not heard but felt—rolling through marble streets, rattling the bones of the faithful.
To see it ascend was to see the Flame itself carried into the void.
Within the vessel’s sanctum, High Orator Calyxis Veyra stood at the forward observation deck.
The ghostfires of the Curia still burned in his eyes, but here, away from the marble and ritual, his voice was quieter, sharper—less sermon, more scalpel.
Captain Ja’kura Vitki approached, his black uniform immaculate, his posture rigid. Yet his eyes flickered with unease, as though the weight of the Orator’s words pressed heavier than the polished medals upon his breast. He bowed his head, but the gesture carried more resignation than reverence.
“High Orator. The course is set. The colonies will see your light before the next cycle.”
Veyra did not turn at once. He watched the city shrink beneath them, the plazas filled with faces upturned in awe. His reflection in the cabin’s pressurized glass was not the prophet they saw, but a man lined with shadows.
“Light,” he said at last, his tone measured.
“Yes. That is what they must believe. That the Flame descends upon them, not the blade.”
Vitki hesitated. “And yet, my lord, it is the blade they will feel.”
Veyra’s lips curved—not a smile, but the ghost of one.
“Every empire is built upon bones, Captain. The difference between ruin and eternity is whether the bones are remembered as sacrifice or as slaughter. That is my task. To make them believe the ash was holy.”
He turned then. His gaze was piercing, his voice low, unyielding.
“Do not mistake me for a zealot, Vitki. I am no slave to the Flame. I am its master. I shape it, wield it, bend it to the Throne’s will. The colonies will burn, yes—but in the chronicles, they will be purified. That is the truth that endures.”
Vitki bowed deeper, though unease flickered in his eyes. “As you decree, High Orator.”