The ramp hissed open, touching down in the Red Consortium's hangar bay. What met them was a sensory overload of a newly created hell. Air rushed in, thick with the scent of smoke, super-heated steel, and the sickly sweet, cloying smell of overcooked meat that made Soren's stomach turn.

  He led the team down the ramp, all of his anxiety about what awaited coiled into the iron grip he held on his greatsword. Aurania was right behind him, greataxe held low—he could feel the disbelief radiating through her as she took in the destroyed space station. Violet held right flank, Morgan’s Mercy in hand, her expression chillingly still. Amalia was on their left, eyes wide with horror—the barrel of NMW dipped as she made a small, choked sound and one hand flew to her mouth. Inelius and Veolo silently brought up their rear.

  Pulse’s ship, The Ghost Step, came gliding in to touch down on the hangar. He exited quickly, a large, custom handgun aimed low. He moved in close with their formation, taking in the oppressive silence that was punctuated only by the crackle of a few dying fires and the groan of shifting metal from the asteroid's damaged superstructure. Soren noticed a faint, almost sub-audible hum vibrating up through the soles of his boots, a residual energy that made his teeth ache.

  Scorched silhouettes were everywhere. He saw the outlines of pirates burned into bulkheads in poses of panic and agony. One was frozen mid-stride, arm outstretched toward a weapon that had melted into a useless lump on the floor. Another group was an ossified tableau around a card table, their forms little more than blackened shapes of ash and shadow. The metal deck had been slagged into a glassy, obsidian-like substance, reflecting the flickering embers like a dark, shattered mirror.

  There had been no battle here.

  It looked more like judgement.

  And then he recognized it.

  The hum—a cold echo of Aether Dust, a psychic residue left in the wake of unimaginable power. It wasn't the wild, chaotic, emotional energy he emitted when his control slipped. This felt different—powerful, yet controlled—precise, and utterly ruthless. It was a cold fire of annihilation.

  He realized his hands were shaking, and he forced himself to still them.

  "Move," Aurania's voice cut through the stunned silence. "Sweep the complex."

  They moved into the base in a tight formation like they were navigating a tomb. The destruction was methodical. In the barracks, they found pirates turned to ash in their bunks. In the mess hall, the cooks were charred silhouettes against the galley wall.

  The further they went, the more Soren felt the strain on Aurania. Every new horror seemed to chisel away at her commander's composure, leaving something raw and shaken underneath. Violet, on the other hand, seemed to grow stronger with resolve. It was like she was staring into the results of a future she’d been moving towards, and realizing she still had a chance to turn away.

  They descended another level, and the purpose of this place became impossible to ignore. The wide chamber opened into what could only have been an auction floor. A raised dais stood at the center, scorched black but still intact enough to show its purpose—restraints bolted to the platform, a half-melted spotlight hanging above. Rows of tiered seating curved around it, their edges fused together by heat, the silhouettes of slavers still frozen in the act of leering, jeering, or raising bids that would never be paid.

  Behind the stage, smaller rooms branched off like veins. What remained inside turned Soren’s stomach even more than the ash outside. Iron pillories, warped and half-melted, but unmistakable in their design. The restraints locked bodies forward at the waist, bent and exposed—shackles fused into place by the same inferno that had consumed their keepers. One room still bore the slagged remains of a holo-projector, its warped frame flickering with static as if trying to replay the grotesque “show” it once displayed.

  Aurania’s nostrils flared with every breath. A low growl emanated from Veolo’s throat. Inelius’ jaw was flexed rigid, teeth bared.

  “Jesus Christ…” Pulse muttered under his breath, a quiet exclamation Soren hadn’t heard in eight millenia—one he doubted anyone else understood.

  They found the massive detention block on the lowest level. The slavers' guard posts were incinerated, the occupants little more than blackened husks fused to their consoles. The cell doors along the corridor had been surgically blown outward, their locks melted into useless lumps of slag. The path to freedom was cleared with the same terrible power that had executed the captors.

  Soren felt the Aether Dust echo strongest here. It wasn't just a residual hum anymore, it was a palpable presence, a stain left on the very fabric of the place. Whatever did this had lingered in this corridor.

  It felt personal.

  "Clear!" Amalia's voice echoed from the end of the detention block. She walked back toward them, NMW held tight to her chest like a shield. "No hostiles. No... anything."

  They found the survivors in what looked like a secondary mess hall, a sprawling, utilitarian space tucked away near where the prisoners had been kept. The room was packed wall to wall with people—easily over three hundred souls crammed together on the floor, wrapped in thin thermal blankets scavenged from storage. They were quiet, but not silent—the low murmur of shifting feet, stifled sobs, and hoarse whispers creating a fragile hush that pressed against the walls. Most were women, their faces hollowed by hunger and fear, their eyes wide and unfocused, as if they had witnessed something too large for their minds to fully hold. The chamber itself was untouched by fire, a pocket of improbable safety in the middle of the strange, surgical inferno.

  Aurania handed her greataxe to Soren and warily approached. She knelt before one of the survivors, a young woman with tear tracks etched through the soot on her face.

  "It's over," she said gently. "You're safe now. What happened here?"

  The woman flinched, her gaze snapping into focus for a moment before clouding over again. Her voice was a hoarse, trembling whisper, the words tumbling out in a disorganized, breathless rush. "We were... we had been praying… for it to end. For anything. For death."

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  She said a sound had come first—not an explosion, but a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the station's hull, followed by a sudden, blinding white light that had moved too fast to see. Then there were screams—the pirates shrieking from the other levels before being silenced unnaturally fast.

  "The white fire..." she whispered, her eyes looking past them. "It went around us. It didn't touch a single one of us—only them." Her voice broke on a sob. "I don't know what it was. A weapon? A... a god? All I know is that everyone who hurt us is gone, and not a single captive was harmed." She looked up at Aurania with a fragile, terrifying hope in her eyes. "Someone answered our prayers."

  The woman fell apart into a slump of broken sobs.

  Soren felt a cold sickness spreading through him. If he had been on a darker, lonelier path, imbued with the power he’d been learning to control…

  He could have done this.

  He was the same type of weapon that was aimed here. Somewhere out there was a dark mirror. Had someone else begun to crack the mystery of Aether Dust the way The Professor had before?

  He understood how easily terror and awe could be twisted into worship, and it sickened him. He turned away, unable to look the survivor in the eye.

  Tamiyo's voice crackled over comms, sharp and urgent: "Multiple ships inbound. Identities unknown."

  The team immediately snapped into a defensive formation, weapons raised, eyes scanning the exits. The survivors flinched at the sudden shift.

  “More pirates?” Pulse asked.

  "The last thing these people need is a firefight," Aurania growled. Her eyes snapped to Soren. "Go—get to the hangar. Amalia, Veolo, Inelius—you're with him. I don't care who's on those ships—you make damn sure they know they picked the wrong place to land."

  Soren nodded, tossed Aurania her axe, and led the small strike team out at a dead sprint. Tamiyo directed them to which hangar the unknown ships seemed to be heading, and they reached it just as the first one began its descent. It was a repurposed freighter, adorned with strange, hand-painted symbols of fire and ash. Two more followed, not warships, but personnel transports.

  As they took cover behind a skeletal ship frame, Veolo hissed, “Soren—time to be flashy. Go scare the fuck out of them."

  He hesitated for just a moment, then he took a deep breath, reached inward for the golden shards holding his power, and let it surge.

  "Yeah," Amalia added, a wide grin on her face. "And fly, you fool! No better time than now to show off."

  “Amalia,” he faltered for a second as he began to glow. Then he stood, looked at her, and said, “Never change.” He focused the gravity on himself, bent it to his will, and pushed off from the ash-covered deck.

  Soren launched out from behind the cover, staggering once and almost falling from the air—but then he recovered. As the ramp of the lead ship extended downward, Soren glared down at them, hovering fifteen feet off the ground with his greatsword held tight in one hand. His hair, eyes, and a thick aura of shimmering air around him glowed an intense, blazing white as the shattered ruins around them vibrated from his power.

  He was a terrifying sentinel of cosmic power.

  The door slid open.

  And as the figures emerged from the ship, it became immediately clear that they were not intimidated. They filed out, staring at him not with fear, but with something that looked disturbingly like reverence. They were armed but held their weapons low.

  And then he realized who they were. Not soldiers or pirates.

  They were Lilithists.

  The zealots Aurania had spoken of. Their faces were etched with a fierce, unwavering faith.

  Soren let the glow fade, his boots touching back down on the deck. A lacravida with scars tracing the lines of her face dropped to one knee. In a voice filled with awe, she said, "We have come for the Children of the Ash."

  The rest of Soren’s squad came up behind him.

  “Aura,” Veolo radioed. “We need you up here ASAP. Friendly’s—or, non-hostile, at least for the moment. Lilithists.”

  Soren stood his ground as they all filed out, their numbers swelling to fifty or more. As he looked them over, a single, unifying theme became apparent. He saw it in the faded brand on a human woman's neck, the cybernetic replacement for a lazarco's lower arm, the scarred, burned jaw of a d’moria man that could no longer grow a beard. He saw a shorn with thick, puckered tissue where her wrist blades had been forcibly removed. A few CIPHERs stood among them, their synthetic faces set with hard-won resolve. These weren't just zealots.

  They were all survivors.

  Former slaves.

  The only lacravida he saw among them was the one kneeling in front of him. As she rose to standing, she reminded him of a valkyrie from ancient myth, her armor a patchwork of scavenged plates and devotional relics. Her eyes burned with a fierce, unwavering light. She stepped forward, her gaze sweeping past Inelius, Veolo, and Amalia before landing directly on Soren.

  "This place has been cleansed," she said in a tone that seemed to vibrate somewhere inside him. "The Mother's fire is strong in this place... and in you."

  It was just like Serava and Hinakané—something about this woman resonated with Aether Dust. Her burning eyes searched his, not with suspicion, but with a kind of sacred recognition. "Was it you who delivered her judgment?"

  Aurania rushed into the hangar, her greataxe held ready, and Pulse followed close behind. A few moments later, Violet emerged, escorting the first of the liberated slaves. Aurania took in the scene—the assembled zealots, their weapons, their eyes fixed on Soren with a disturbing reverence.

  "What's going on?" she demanded as she approached them.

  "They think I did this," Soren said. "Because of my powers. They think I'm some kind of... servant of their goddess."

  "No," Aurania stepped forward to address the Lilithist leader directly. "We just arrived. We found this place as it is."

  The leader looked Aurania over for a moment. A flicker of something—recognition perhaps—crossed her face. “Who are you?”

  “Aurania Enderchild of Nox. War-Chieftess of Berilinsk.”

  “Enderchild,” the leader repeated. “I know that name. From my previous life, long ago.”

  Aurania looked deeply disturbed. "Who are you?"

  The leader gave a humorless smile. “My name is of no import. I was one of you… before. But I am now a servant of The Holy Mother." She looked back at Soren. “You have done well, acting in her will.”

  "But I—" Soren started to protest.

  "The Red Consortium has been purged,” Pulse stepped forward. “Their captives are free. Since you are here, perhaps you would be kind enough to pay us the bounty we are owed, per your contract."

  The Lilithist leader’s gaze shifted from Soren to Pulse, then back again. Her eyes lingered for several long moments, then a slow smile spread across her face. "The Mother's will has been done. Of course. The bounty will be transferred."

  She turned and gave a single, sharp command, and her followers gently approached the survivors. The Lilithists greeted them not as victims, but as the chosen—the "Children of the Ash." They wrapped them in clean blankets, offered them water, and quietly led them toward their ships.

  Soren stood in the melted, ash-filled hangar, surrounded by his team. As they watched the Lilithist ships depart, he felt hollow. They had ‘succeeded’ in their mission, but discovered a terrifying truth in the process. Someone or something else existed with abilities like his—a dark reflection.

  And they were a god to a cult of fanatics.