Word of the Arcadia spread faster than her wake. Whispers of crimson eyes and mist-shrouded guns reached ears far beyond the void lanes. To most, she was only a tale to frighten smugglers and comfort the downtrodden. But to one man, she was a challenge.
His name was Lord-Captain Seraphis Veynar of House Veynar — a Rogue Trader whose family had held their Warrant since the Great Crusade. His dynasty was old, entrenched, bloated with influence. His fleets plied the stars like carrion crows, stripping worlds bare under the excuse of Imperial right.
When he heard the name Arcadia, he laughed.
"A pirate's ghost ship," he sneered, sipping wine from a chalice wrought in gold. "A myth spun by void-born wretches. I'll mount her skull prow beneath my flagship's bridge and add her phantom captain to my collection of trophies."
And so his flotilla turned from their trade lanes, prow-lights burning bright, hunting the Arcadia.
Harlock saw them first in the mist. A fleet of three grand cruisers and a swarm of escorts, banners of House Veynar fluttering on their masts. He stood at the helm, cloak hanging still, his crew gathered at battle stations.
"Rogue Trader," Thomar growled, spitting on the deck. "They've the Emperor's blessing to pillage and murder in the name of profit. Means they'll come at us bold, thinkin' the Warrant makes 'em untouchable."
Harlock's hand tightened on the wheel. His crimson sight pulsed faintly beneath the patch, showing flickers of battle not yet begun: ships burning, decks awash in blood, and a golden prow splitting in two.
"They want to test a legend," he murmured. "Then let them."
The vox crackled. Lord-Captain Veynar's voice boomed across the bridge, dripping arrogance.
"Francis Harlock, Pirate of Arcadia. You fancy yourself a phantom, a scourge of the void. I name you false. Surrender your vessel, kneel before House Veynar, and perhaps I'll let your people live as indentured crew under my dynasty. Refuse…"
He paused, his voice hardening to iron.
"…and I will scour your name from the stars. You and your so-called Arcadians will be forgotten footnotes in my dynasty's triumph."
The bridge fell silent. All eyes turned to Harlock.
He leaned forward against the helm, one hand resting on the wheel, the other on the saber at his hip. His voice was low, calm, yet carrying to every ear aboard his ship.
"You call us forgotten, Lord-Captain," Harlock said. "But it is your name that will burn away, lost in the void. For Arcadia remembers. And she does not forgive."
The vox died to static.
And then the guns roared.