The rift widened like a wound in the sky, its edges dripping with molten starlight. Every ship, every soldier, every commander froze. Even the Harbinger, drunk on fury, lowered his axe. Something far older than war was awakening.
From the abyss beyond spilled whispers—not sound, but memory. Voices of civilizations long dead, echoes of battles fought in forgotten eons. The battlefield trembled as if the galaxy itself recoiled.
Lyra clutched her head, the Seed burning like fire in her veins. "They're… speaking. They're calling me."
Kaelen pulled her close, shielding her as the wind of infinity ripped at their armor. "Ignore them, Lyra! Stay here with me!"
But the rift birthed more than voices. Shapes began to emerge—colossal silhouettes that dwarfed the strongest warships. Their forms were not of flesh or steel, but woven from living constellations, each star within them burning like an eye.
The Seer Azhira fell to her knees, veil torn back by the gale. For the first time, her certainty cracked. "No… these are not visions. These are the Architects."
The word spread like wildfire, whispered by terrified throats. The first makers, the beings who had sown the Infinity Seed across the stars. Thought to be myths. Thought to be gone.
One of the towering entities leaned forward, its voice crashing across the battlefield like a tidal wave:
"Who dares awaken the Seed before its time?"
Admiral Veyric, his fleet trembling under the weight of the beings, raised his hand and forced his voice steady. "I am Veyric of the Dominion. We fight for order."
Another Architect turned, its voice colder.
"You fight for greed. We see your hearts. All of you."
The Harbinger roared, defiant even before gods. "I fear no phantom of the stars! Test me, and I'll split even you!"
His challenge was met with silence—and then with a gesture. A single motion from an Architect struck his war-beast dead, its mountain-sized body collapsing into dust. The Harbinger staggered, stunned into silence.
Lyra shuddered, light bleeding from her skin. The Seed resonated with the beings, singing in harmony. She realized with horror:
"They don't see me as a person. They see me as their creation… their tool."
The Echo-Lord's laughter rose again, triumphant. "At last. The game becomes worthy. The architects return to chain you, little spark. But I will break their chains as I break yours."
The rift expanded further, and the battlefield was bathed in the gaze of immortals. Every faction—Dominion, Seers, Harbinger's hordes—faced the same truth: they were insects before the storm.
And in that moment, the Architects spoke in unison, their voices shaking the marrow of every soul:
"The Seed is not yours. It is ours. Surrender it, or watch your galaxy dissolve."