CHAPTER ONE: THE SUNS OF AKROMOS
CHAPTER TWO: THE BURDEN OF BELIAL
CHAPTER THREE: THE VOYAGE OF THE KRAUSNAUT
CHAPTER FOUR: EDIN
CHAPTER ONE: THE SUNS OF AKROMOS
Lo was late.
That was the first sign. For countless cycles, the smallest of Akromos' three sibling suns had kept its rhythm, orbiting Makan, the largest, like a dutiful child clinging to its parent. Each pass quickened the day, shifted gravity, and pulled the pulse of the planet into balance. But this morning, when the shadow of Lo should have kissed the curve of Makan and freed the ground from its full weight, Lo lagged.
The delay was small, barely perceptible to the untrained eye. Yet on Akromos, the smallest change echoed everywhere.
The Dance of Suns
On the plateau of the Shamite capital, an audience of engineers watched the sky. The air was heavy with silence, and their expressions, sharpened by the discipline of telepathic restraint, betrayed a collective unease.
Late. The word flickered across their shared channel like a whisper they wished not to voice.
When Lo finally completed its turn and gravity eased, the city below erupted into motion. Massive spires groaned and shifted, platforms glided on magnetic currents, and colossal machines rolled across avenues like patient beasts. For the Shamites, this period of lighter gravity was sacred efficiency as the time when the impossible became effortless. Towers of stone slid across districts; ore blocks the size of fortresses floated on skiffs of energy.
The Shamites were masters of these transitions. They had harnessed Lo's orbit not only as a calendar but as a power source, an economic engine, and the very rhythm of their supremacy. Control the low-gravity hours, and you controlled the lifeblood of trade. Control the lifeblood of trade, and you controlled Akromos itself.
Yet even as the city moved with mathematical grace, unease lingered. Lo had slowed. What did that mean?
The Shamru
Far below, beneath roots and rivers, the Shamru pulsed.
It was not a thing of matter alone, not roots, not wires, not synapses, though it resembled all three. The Shamru was the bond, a lattice of thought and spirit that tied every living being of Akromos into a single shared current. Some felt it as music, others as a river, others as the warmth of a fire pressed to the mind.
To the Shamites, it was the central bank of memory and governance. To the Inui of Gregrur, it was the resonance that shaped their flutes and summoned their waters. To the green sentinels of Truso, it was lifeblood itself, each root and leaf a finger of connection. To the sky-dwelling Funsi of Kandor, it was the tether that bound heavens to ground.
All tribes drew from it. All tribes feared its silence.
Boraj the Hunter
Boraj felt it first not in the sky, but in the marrow of his bones.
He rode his Troju, a two-headed beast bred in the frozen caverns of Gregrur, across the high plains. The creature's twin muzzles huffed steam in opposite directions, scenting both past and future. Beside him padded his Toruk, a nightmare of ox skull and saber-toothed body, its claws retracting and extending in restless rhythm. The Toruk was bred for vigilance; even asleep it dreamt of threats.
Boraj was a hunter, but not of flesh alone. His quarry was imbalance. He roved between tribes, watching for signs that the planet's cycles had shifted. Storms too fierce, trees too still, rivers too warm. It was not duty alone but instinct. Boraj had always felt the Shamru's whispers stronger than most, as though the planet itself had chosen him as its watchdog.
That morning, as Lo dragged across Makan, Boraj's breath grew shallow. His Troju faltered, stamping in agitation. Even the Toruk snarled, confused, its internal compass spinning. The Shamru was loud with distress, a tone like wood splintering, resonating in his skull.
He spurred his mount north, toward Truso. If anything could explain the disturbance, it would be the trees.
Truso
Truso's forests were older than stars.
Trees rose like mountains, their trunks broad as palaces, their crowns tangled in clouds. Each tree carried a lineage older than recorded history, and each had one sacred duty: plant the young and move forward.
For on Truso, trees did not stay. When new saplings sprouted, the parent would uproot itself and wander, searching for new soil, leaving the young to take its place. This cycle ensured that roots remained entangled with the Shamru, constantly stimulating it like a heart resuscitated with every step. Without this rhythm, connection faltered. Without connection, Akromos died.
Boraj entered the forest and froze.
The trees were still.
They had not planted. They had not moved. And the eldest among them, whose roots carried secrets of millennia, sagged. Their bark greyed. Their crowns wilted. Across the Shamru, their death-songs bled like thunder.
Boraj gripped the mane of his Troju until his knuckles whitened. Elder trees dying meant history itself was vanishing, the memories of Akromos' first ages, its wars, its healings, its songs.
The Shamru flickered with panic. Chaos. Loss. Silence.
Boraj turned his mount. He had to reach Akhan, ruler of the Shamites. If the elder trees were falling, the world itself teetered.
Akhan of the Shamites
In the crystalline halls of the Shamite citadel, Akhan listened.
Tall and austere, crowned not by metal but by the luminous threads of Shamru itself that hovered above his brow, Akhan carried the presence of a man half-flesh, half-myth. His people's telepathic voices clamored around him: reports of thinning air, unstable magnetic fields, delayed tides.
Boraj entered, dust clinging to his hunter's cloak, and bowed with both heads of his Troju lowered in deference.
Through the Shamru, images flowed into Akhan's mind: trees frozen in stillness, elder trunks collapsing, death-songs unraveling the lattice of memory.
Akhan's jaw tightened. "The Shamru can hold their memories temporarily," he said, voice more thought than sound, resonating across the chamber. "But it is no cure. If the roots no longer walk, the Shamru weakens. If the Shamru weakens…"
He left the words unfinished. None needed reminding.
The Funsi's Warning
That evening, another vision reached Akhan, this one borne on golden winds. Hako, ruler of the Funsi, appeared before him, cloaked in sky-dust that shimmered like constellations.
"Lo has slowed," Hako said without preamble. His telepathic voice carried a tone older than fear, almost reverence. "The legends of Truso spoke of this. When a sister star stumbles, destruction follows. Only the strength of Shamru can decide survival."
Akhan felt the words strike like a blade. Legends were not taken lightly. The Shamru itself pulsed in agreement, acknowledging the prophecy's weight.
He summoned the leaders of all tribes. Not in body, but within the Shamru, a council of minds where distance held no meaning. One by one they appeared: the Inui of Gregrur, their presence like flowing rivers; the guardians of Truso, heavy as rooted soil; the golden Funsi, shimmering like stars.
Together they reached into the Shamru's depths, searching for its pulse. Relief came, strong, steady, alive. Yet the slowing of Lo could not be ignored. Already the atmosphere thinned, air stretching too thin for lungs. Hako doubled the release of golden dust, burning through reserves, but it was only a stopgap.
And in the silence that followed, panic spread like wildfire across the planet.
Belial
When the council ended, Akhan called his brother.
Belial entered not with the humility of a servant, but the pride of a soldier. His armor was black, cut with lines of molten red, as though he carried within him the fury of stars. His reputation stretched from the core of Akromos to the mining planets beyond: superintendent of Okran, commander of legions, breaker of rebellions.
Yet in Akhan's presence, even Belial bowed his head.
"The reserves are failing," Akhan told him. "The air thins faster than we can supply it. I cannot hold the balance much longer."
Belial's gaze hardened. "Then let me go. The cosmos is wide. There are worlds with gold enough to weave new skies. Release me of my crown's duties, and I will return with salvation."
Akhan stiffened. "Leave Akromos, when it falters most? You ask me to lose my brother and my strongest arm."
Belial's voice lowered. "Not lose. Expand. This is no demotion, Akhan. It is sacrifice. If I remain, I watch our people choke. If I depart, I give us hope."
For the first time in centuries, Akhan hesitated.
The Spirit Head's Prophecy
They turned to Truso, to the Spirit Head, guardian of ancient knowledge. In the sacred grove, beneath trees that still clung to life, the Spirit's voice rose, deeper than soil, sharper than truth.
"Two futures await," it intoned. "Belial will find a world rich in gold. In one path, he returns. Akromos breathes anew. In the other, he remains, choosing life away from here. Should he stay, Akromos will wither."
Belial stepped forward, hand clenched. "Then I choose to return. I swear it."
Yet the Spirit shook its vast crown. "Choice is not bound to oath. Choice is bound to heart. When the hour comes, your heart will decide, not your tongue."
Belial's chest tightened. He could not understand how abandoning the mission might save Akromos, but doubt settled in his veins like ash.
The Beginning of a Journey
Akhan granted him the Krausnaut, a ship forged of metal and Shamru alike, with its own ecosystem, beasts, and suns in miniature. Workers were recruited from Opal-628, sixty thousand strong. Thirty generals swore fealty at his side.
The tribes each gave their gifts: Gregrur's master tone for endless water, Truso's planting of new trees in his honor, Funsi's golden winds to cloak his sails.
And on the eve of departure, Akhan laid his hand upon Belial's brow and bestowed the forbidden gift, the knowledge of creation. A failsafe should all his workers perish.
As Lo curved once more around Makan, and gravity eased, the Krausnaut lifted. Songs of remembrance filled the Shamru. Belial looked back at his brother, then forward into the abyss.
He had no way of knowing the journey would not go as planned.
No way of knowing that Akromos' fate, and perhaps the fate of all worlds, had already begun to slip beyond prophecy's grasp.