The city's cold wind slid across the polished hulls of the Zelith hovercrafts as they sped low above the capital's outer district. Inside the lead craft, Elite Commander Serath sat stiff, one armored hand gripping the railing beside her. The enemy walked openly in their streets, stared into their shopfronts, bought their art — and she had to protect them.
Her eyes, hardened by battles across six worlds, flickered with memory and restraint. Mahasimu. Ugly, silent beasts. Devouring worlds and calling it diplomacy. And now she, of all people, had to guard their High Emissary? She clenched her jaw, jawline twitching beneath her ornate crimson helm. The gods test me.
As the hovercraft curved through a tight alley and down the main promenade, she spotted Vaelora, the Emissary of Desolation, walking with unnerving calm. Two of her guards — tall, twisted creatures of old flesh and dark armor — flanked her silently. Her little servants followed behind, trailing long, ornate fabrics and carrying nothing but scrolls, blades, and a single purchased painting. Tamun was still clutching it.
The hovercraft set down with a low hum. Serath's squad leapt out in disciplined formation, weapons low but charged. She stepped forward, armor hissing as she moved.
"We are your escort. From now on, you are not to leave the palace without protection," she said flatly.
Vaelora didn't look at her. She kept walking, slow, graceful, measured — as though she floated over the stone. "You're late," she murmured. "You could've saved your patrol's life if you were at the market."
Serath's nostrils flared. She bit down on her response, fists tightening at her sides. Arrogant monster. But she said nothing, only gave a sharp gesture, and her squad fell in line behind the delegation.
She noticed the painting again in Tamun's hands — six arms, twisted elegance, beauty woven into agony. It unsettled her. Even their art is diseased, she thought. And yet… her eyes lingered. There was something about it. Something strangely… honest.
As sunset stretched long gold veins across the towers, Vaelora stopped walking abruptly. Serath raised a hand, signaling halt.
"What's wrong?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Vaelora turned slowly. "Take me to High General Vrakhar's mansion. I wish to see how he lives — and request an audience with him."
Serath blinked. Why? The request didn't make sense. She exchanged a glance with her lead guard, who immediately opened a commline and requested a hovercraft fit for secure transit. "You realize Vrakhar lives inside the military zone," she said. "Half a planet of steel, battalions and launches… and his home's right on the edge, past the city's border. Normal transport can't make that run."
"I didn't ask for normal transport," Vaelora replied simply, still facing the sunset. "I asked to see him."
Within the high command fortress, General Vrakhar received the message and allowed the visit. He was curious. Watching her so openly defy and dance through their protocols… she was either mad or had already seen how this war would end.
The hovercraft arrived and lifted off from the palace spires. Vaelora sat still, eyes distant. Serath sat across from her, watching her in the dim red cabin lights. Eventually, Vaelora spoke, "Umbara Prime. You would've hated it. The air was thick with salt mist and the walls screamed with memory. But its people — elegant killers. Your kind, in another life."
Serath blinked. Is she making conversation? "We are nothing alike."
Vaelora gave a faint smile, turning her gaze to the clouds. "No, not yet."
The hovercraft broke through into the edge of the command zone. Below them, thousands of Thalor troops moved in massive columns. Transports roared to life. Warships ignited their cores and vanished into the sunset — the fleet under Admiral Tyresh mobilizing for the final campaign. Serath saw it and felt pride again, raw and ancient.
They touched down on General Vrakhar's private platform. His guards stood at full alert. The General approached, his armor stripped down to a simpler commander's uniform. He greeted them in his firm, dry tone, nodding once.
Inside, the dinning chamber was elegant in its simplicity — wood, steel, and quiet. No ostentation. Vrakhar poured tea himself. "Why did you request this?"
Vaelora sat with folded hands. "To see how you live. You are your species' strategist. You lead with honor. I do not care about your High Council and their decisions. I came only to observe the man who prepares his people's final stand."
Vrakhar watched her in silence. "You speak like someone who already knows the outcome."
"I do," Vaelora said. "But your kind deserves to be remembered."
Then she added, "Even Vice General Verka holds my interest. And Commander Serath…" She turned briefly. "You are young, your anger fast, your judgments irrational. But you are not without honor."
Serath narrowed her eyes. She didn't like how it sounded, but something stirred in her chest.
"I now wish for you to see how I live," Vaelora said quietly, rising. "As a guest."
Vrakhar stood slowly. "Then we will leave now. But I want Kal'mor-Zai present."
Vaelora turned her head, looking to the shadows.
"You mean her as well?" she said softly. "She's been watching me since I arrived."
From behind a pillar, the shadows peeled back — and Shael'Ryn, the seer's hound-assassin, revealed herself, her obsidian skin flowing with silent movement. Kal'mor-Zai, the War Seer, stepped forward next. "Seems she needs to work on her stealth," he muttered coldly.
Vaelora grinned. "Shall we depart?"
Vrakhar nodded. "Immediately."
Far across the stars, the vast organic-hull of the Krymaloth pulsed through warp-space like a living cathedral of war. Once a gargantuan, worm-like creature, its interior hull had been carved into cavernous chambers—massive hangar bays shielded by bio-ceramic plating and focused shield lenses. Remaining sections consisted of living muscle and sinew fused with wiring, membrane bridges, and lifeblood conduits. The cockpit lay nestled atop a crown of neural roots, where the Silent One pilot—fully integrated with the creature's nervous system—maneuvered the living vessel. Long, ribbed corset bays lined the mid-hull where countless Wyches and gladiatorial priestesses once dueled; now reconfigured for troop movement and hosting stasis coffins along armored corridors that shimmered with biolight.
At the bow, an observation gallery overlooked the chaos of the battlespace below. Shadows trickled across the glass, refracting into living patterns as the Krymaloth shifted on its course. Though rebuilt as a living dreadnought, it retained the feeling of a breathing, dreaming predator.
Inside the nerve-hall, Seraya sat in silent communion with the beast—her braided tendrils tapping on organic neural detectors. Tethered to the Krymaloth's mind, she felt their shared consciousness awaken as they neared VE4.
A soft hiss announced the arrival of Helica Venomkiss, an Archite and one of the elite Succubi—titled "Brides of Death" in Commorragh's gladiatorial cults. Her entrance came without ceremony, but her presence commanded attention.
Helica's pale alabaster skin shimmered with faint luminescence. Her slender frame was curved and flawless, each gesture fluid yet poised to strike. She bore two arms—sleek and sculpted with the perfection of violence incarnate. In one hand, she held a whiplash, a sinuous living weapon of vibrating spines and coiled aggression; in the other, a dark saber, a relic blade forged in psychic silence and drawn from the Black Vaults of Commorragh.
Her face was an expression of cruel beauty: high cheekbones, blood-red lips eternally parted in a mocking smile, and yellow-gold eyes with slit pupils that gleamed like torchlight through mist. Silver-laced scars danced across her translucent skin—trophies of duels across dark arenas. Her costume was far more delicate than armor: a filigree corset binding her torso, straps across her arms and legs leading into high heels made for speed and spectacle. Every motion had purpose; every stillness carried threat.
"Seraya," Helica purred, voice low like oil-slither. "VE4 beckons." She bowed low, dark saber raised slightly in respect, whiplash coiled like a predator at rest. "Shall we find our prize?"
Seraya inclined her head, red eyes glowing softly.
Krymaloth design note:
Length: Over ten kilometers from snout to segmented tail
Hull: Shimmering black-silver chitin fused into morphic plating
Internal structure: Bony sternal ridges divide muscle-packed bays
Crew volume: Hangar bays berth dozens of corvette-scale fighters; coffin galleries house thousands in stasis
Nerve core: A crystalline mind-node fused into a warp-sensitive organic matrix; central control for the beast
Wych history & society:
Wych cults are more than assassins—they are gladiatorial orders unique to Commorragh's twisted society. Every Wych is female, selected in youth for her potential in grace, beauty, and cruelty. Trained in the arena, they kill not for need but for show. To them, combat is performance art—each wound a stroke of artistry, each death a statement of dominance.
Each Wych Cult is ruled by a triune council of Succubi, with only one holding supreme authority. The others vie for dominance in public arenas, hoping to win over the dark-hearted crowds of the Silent City. Succubi like Helica are celebrities and killers, queens of aesthetic death. Among them, scars are worn as statements, but flaws—imperfections—are punished with death or disgrace. The cults value beauty, brutality, and fame above all.
Helica Venomkiss is one of the most celebrated of her kind, her artistry in the arena rivaled only by her cruelty. Now serving under Seraya, she moves not just as a warrior, but as a weapon of terror, grace, and legacy.