CHAPTER FOUR
The Planet in View
The unnamed planet filled the viewport like a jewel cast upon the dark cloth of space. Oceans stretched in vast sweeps of blue, broken by sprawling continents of deep green. Clouds drifted lazily, glowing silver in the starlight. Lightning flickered across storm fronts, illuminating the shadows of mountains so tall they clawed the sky.
For the first time since the destruction of the Krausnaut, Belial felt wonder rather than loss. The planet was alive; fiercely alive. Its colors reminded him of Akromos, though softer, gentler, lacking the harsh blaze of three suns.
The Shamru was silent in his mind. He felt its absence like a phantom limb. This world was outside the lattice of Akromos. Here, he was alone.
And yet, as the planet loomed larger, his chest stirred with something dangerous: hope.
The Descent
The surviving fleet of landers slowed, their engines straining to hold formation. Belial had studied the readings carefully: breathable air, abundant water, thriving ecosystems. No trace of industry. Primitive life, scattered across the land, but no machines, no towers, no skyships.
He addressed his generals through the comm. "This is where we begin again. Maintain discipline. Maintain purpose. Remember why we came. Akromos breathes only if we succeed."
The landers angled toward the blue hemisphere. One by one, they pierced the atmosphere.
The first general, eager and reckless, drove his lander too fast. Friction ignited the hull. Fire engulfed the vessel, and within seconds it was ash raining across the ocean. Belial cursed, slamming his fist into the controls.
"Slow descent!" he barked. "Minimal entry speed! Do not repeat his mistake!"
The others obeyed, though their vessels burned with the heat of entry. Through streaks of flame, the survivors glimpsed the world below: vast forests where colossal birds soared, rivers gleaming like serpents of silver, and herds of beasts pounding across plains.
For many, it was the first sight of a living world beyond Akromos. Even generals hardened by war felt awe bloom in their chests.
Edin
Belial's lander touched down on a plain near the shore of a vast inland sea. The soil was soft, dark, rich with life. He knelt and scooped a handful, letting it sift through his fingers.
"This ground," he murmured, "is the beginning."
He turned to his generals. "Mark this place. From this day, it will be called Edin."
The word carried through the comms, and soon all landers echoed it. The first settlement of their exile had been named.
Workers were unloaded from cryosleep, blinking in confusion at the sunlight. Supplies followed: tools, beasts, crates of seed and ore. Soldiers formed a perimeter, weapons raised, eyes scanning the horizon.
A headcount revealed the truth: from sixty thousand, fewer than twelve thousand remained. Of those, only eight thousand were fit for mining. The mission that had begun as an empire's salvation was now a fragile gamble.
Belial swallowed his despair. He could not show weakness. "We have enough," he said aloud. "Enough to begin. Enough to endure."
The Scouts
It was not long before the indigenes noticed them.
From the north, a party of scouts approached, riding atop massive boar-like beasts. Their bodies were bare of metal, their weapons little more than sharpened poles. Yet their faces were proud, their movements fearless.
The soldiers of Akromos raised weapons. Belial ordered caution. "Do not strike unless struck."
The scouts advanced. Curiosity burned in their eyes. They had seen the landers streak from the heavens, fire trailing behind them. To them, this was not an arrival but an omen.
When they drew too close, Belial ordered a warning shot. A plasma bolt tore the earth before them, showering them in dirt. The beasts squealed. The riders froze.
Some fled. Others stood firm, spears leveled though hopelessly outmatched. The air grew tense, vibrating with the promise of blood.
A soldier, too eager, fired again. The bolt struck a rider, killing him instantly. Chaos erupted. Scouts shouted, beasts reared, spears flew.
"Hold!" Belial roared. His voice thundered through the comms, halting his soldiers. "No slaughter! No conquest! We are guests here, not tyrants!"
But the damage was done. One of the planet's own had fallen. The standoff teetered on the edge of carnage.
The Bridge
Belial stepped forward. He motioned for a surviving scout to be brought to him. The man struggled, eyes wide, breath rapid. His fear was raw, but his spirit unbroken.
Belial pressed his hands to the sides of the man's head. Their eyes locked. The world dissolved.
For a heartbeat, Belial floated in darkness. Then — images. Memories. The scout's childhood among forests and rivers. Hunts with his tribe. Songs sung beneath the stars. A life of simplicity, but one of depth.
And then, into that current, Belial poured his own: visions of Akromos, three suns blazing, Shamru pulsing beneath roots, gold dust glittering in skies. He showed the slowing of Lo, the thinning air, the desperation that had driven them here.
When the bond broke, the scout staggered back, gasping. His eyes glowed faintly, touched by the echo of Belial's power.
"What is your name?" Belial asked.
The scout hesitated, then spoke. "Udu."
The Shock of Knowledge
Udu returned to his comrades. His words spilled like fire: of Akromos, of suns, of distant galaxies. He spoke of beings who ate light instead of flesh, who spoke without mouths, who carried in their hearts entire worlds.
His companions balked. Some called him mad. Others believed, trembling. None could ignore the truth burning in his eyes.
When Udu described Akromos' plight; a world choking, searching for salvation, a silence fell. For the first time, they considered the unthinkable: that their planet was not the only one. That life existed beyond their sky.
It shattered their understanding.
The High Priest
Word spread quickly. The scouts brought Belial's general before their settlement. A cluster of wooden halls built upon stone foundations, smoke rising from cooking fires. At the heart of it waited the high priest.
He was old, his hair white, his back bent, but his presence was fierce. Around his neck hung charms carved of bone and wood. His eyes gleamed with a wisdom not born of books, but of long communion with the land.
Udu stood beside him, serving as bridge.
The priest regarded Belial's general with suspicion, then curiosity. "You are not of this world," he said through Udu. "Your kind fell from the sky like fire. What do you seek here?"
The general repeated Belial's truth: their world was dying, their skies thinning, their survival bound to gold. They had come not to conquer, but to endure.
The priest frowned. "Gold? The earth's blood? You seek it, and in great measure?"
"Yes," the general said. "It is life for us."
The priest's eyes narrowed. "For us, gold is poison. It burns the soil. It blinds the rivers. Take too much, and the land sickens."
The general faltered. He had no answer.
The Question of Names
Then the priest asked, "What do you call our world?"
The general hesitated. "We… we have not named it."
The priest leaned forward. "Good. For only a creator may name a thing. To name is to claim. To claim is to own. And none among us owns the world. We are her children, not her masters."
The words unsettled the general. Among the Shamites, naming was power. To claim a thing was to control it, to define its place in the order of all. But here was a people who refused ownership, who saw the act itself as arrogance.
When Udu translated, Belial listened through the link. A wry smile touched his lips. They live in innocence. But innocence is weakness. If they cannot name their world, then we will.
The Feast of Suspicion
The priest, despite his mistrust, invited the general to stay the night. Fires were lit. Food was served; roasted beasts, fermented drink. Children stared at the silent visitor with awe. Warriors watched with hands on weapons.
The general ate nothing. His body absorbed light, as all Shamites did. When asked, he explained through Udu that his people needed only the sun. Murmurs rippled through the crowd; admiration, fear, disbelief.
The priest asked one more question. "If you need only the sun, then you will move as the sun moves. You will not stay still. You will wander. What happens when your wandering crosses our homes?"
The general could not answer. Belial, listening from afar, clenched his fists. Already he felt the difficulty of coexistence.
The Display
The next day, Belial prepared a demonstration. He summoned soldiers of speed, precision, and skill. Before the priest, he showed them moving as one, blades flashing, formations perfect. He revealed tools of light and fire, machines that lifted stones as easily as pebbles, devices that summoned water with a tone, beacons that bent hyperspace.
"These are gifts," Belial said through Udu. "We come not only to take, but to give. With our knowledge, your people may rise."
The priest studied the display. His eyes were unreadable. "Or fall," he whispered.
The Weight of Choice
That night, Belial stood at the edge of the camp, staring at the stars. Behind him, his people built shelters, unloaded supplies, staked claims. Before him stretched the land of Edin. fertile, unbroken, alive.
He remembered the Spirit Head's warning: two futures, both found in gold. One where he returned. One where he remained.
Belial's heart thundered. He could not yet see which path he would choose. But he knew this: whatever his choice, it would shape not only Akromos' fate, but this world's as well.
Udu approached quietly, bowing.
"Lord Belial," he said. "The high priest has agreed to meet you himself. He says your presence will decide whether you are guests or conquerors."
Belial turned, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Then tomorrow, we decide the shape of this new world."
He looked back to the stars, to Akromos, unseen but burning in his mind.
And in that moment, he realized the burden of choice was no longer distant. It had arrived.