The stars over the now scorched barren planet of Turnur I shimmered with cold indifference as Cyrelle’s ship coasted silently through the void, the warp tunnel collapsing behind her with a low-frequency hum. She hadn’t spoken in hours. Her comms were now dark. Her destination, Mehatoor. She had left Rote Kapelle quietly. No fireworks. No dramatic confrontations. Just a respectful nod to the few pilots who had truly taught her something meaningful. There were many exceptional minds and deadly hands, but the path they walked had begun to diverge from hers. What had started as a pursuit of skill had become a study in detachment. Brutal efficiency. Power without purpose. They were warriors, yes. But warriors fighting for what? Kills, ego, fun, or prestige?
There was no guilt. Rote Kapelle had shown her what she’d asked for, how to command with precision, how to disengage without shame, how to win with speed and misdirection. But the time had come to stop fleeing from purpose. “You can’t fight shadow wars forever,” she had said quietly to herself when recording her final message to the corp. “Sometimes, the real war is the one you were born to fight.” The people of the Empire didn’t need gods in golden ships, they needed protectors.
And now, she would be that again.
Cyrelle’s Imperial Navy Slicer docked with a familiar grace. Cyrelle stood alone on the embarkation ramp, looking at the sealed blast doors of the 24th Imperial Crusade Logistic Support station. She had once left this station with aspirations of becoming something more than a militia commander. Now, she returned, not as a prodigal warrior, but as something greater, a woman who had learned in the fires of countless engagements that strength without conviction is just cruelty with better optics.
A local militia officer approached her, puzzled. “Commander Aurilen? I thought you’d gone dark.”
“I did,” she replied, brushing past him, “But now I’m back.”
Later that evening, Cyrelle sat in the chapel at the heart of the station, surrounded by candles and silence. The stained glass above her pulsed dimly, portraying the Empress Catiz.
She knelt and spoke softly, “Forgive me for putting my skill before my purpose. I left to sharpen my blade. Now I return to wield it for the people.” There was no reply, of course. But she didn’t need one. The silence of the chapel was confirmation enough. The warzone was still ablaze. Sansha incursions continued unchecked throughout Empire space. The people were still suffering.
She had work to do.
((last post: Transition into the next chapter))