The Arcadia vanished into the void, yet her presence lingered like a scar.
The destruction of the Imperial frigate spread through vox and rumor faster than light. A ship with a prow of bone, a mist that swallowed fire, a captain who bent steel to his will — these whispers crawled across trade lanes, through dockside taverns, into the ears of rogue traders and smugglers.
Some called her a heresy.
Some called her a miracle.
Most called her a ghost.
And so the Arcadia's legend began.
Harlock steered his ship into the shadowed reaches of the Segmentum, far from patrol routes, into half-forgotten systems where the Imperium's grip was weak. Worlds burned by raiders, stations left hollow by war, colonies abandoned to pirates — these became his hunting grounds.
It began with a mining station. A desperate signal carried across the void: a raider flotilla had descended, stripping it of ore and lives alike.
The Arcadia answered.
The battle was over before it began. The raiders' auspex sputtered with ghosts, their ships firing blindly into mist. By the time they realized the truth, Harlock's broadside had gutted their flagship, and the rest broke in terror. Survivors swore they saw a ship cloaked in shadow, a grinning skull prow splitting the dark, and a captain at its helm with eyes like stormlight.
The miners named him Savior. The raiders named him Specter.
Harlock himself named nothing. He simply turned the wheel and moved on.
Weeks became months. The Arcadia moved from system to system, a phantom trail of wreckage and whispered salvation in her wake.
A pilgrim fleet claimed they had been saved from Eldar corsairs by the skull-ship, its black mist shielding them as they limped to safety.
A hive world whispered of a shadow vessel that shattered a slaver fleet before vanishing into the warp-routes.
A rogue trader, half-mad with drink, told of seeing the Arcadia drift silently through the void, guns bristling, only to vanish when challenged.
Each tale was different. Each tale grew.
And with each tale, the Imperium's fear grew sharper.
On the bridge of the Arcadia, Harlock stood at the wheel as stars wheeled by. His crew moved in silence, loyal but uneasy. They had been Imperial subjects once. Now, each battle against raiders, each act of salvation, also made them outlaws.
The first officer broke the silence.
"Captain… word spreads. Faster than we travel. Soon every system in the Segmentum will know the skull ship. The Imperium will not tolerate it."
Harlock's hands tightened on the helm. His gaze was fixed on the void ahead.
"Let them spread it," he said. "Let them curse my name. Let them brand me traitor, pirate, ghost. I care nothing for their titles."
He turned the wheel, the prow of the Arcadia cutting into the dark.
"So long as there are tyrants and slavers, there will be need for a ghost."
And so the Arcadia carved her legend into the stars — neither loyal to the Imperium, nor servant of Chaos, but something other, something defiant.
A ship born of grief.
A captain bound to her soul.
A ghost that even fate could not bind.
The galaxy would not forget.