The void burned with fire and wreckage. Veynar's escorts died one by one, not in grand battles but in sudden flashes of mist and cannon. Each time the Arcadia appeared, she struck like a predator and was gone before the fleet could answer.
Veynar's bridge echoed with fury.
"She moves where no ship can!" his officers cried. "She turns against inertia, she drifts without power, she—"
"Silence!" Veynar roared, his face purple with rage. "It's tricks! Tricks and myths! No ship defies physics. No ship vanishes into nothing. Find her! Burn her!"
But aboard the Arcadia, the truth was plainer.
The black mist clung to her like a second skin, alive with whispers none dared to name. It curled into sensors, drowned auspex returns, cloaked hull and drive alike. Even without her engines, she slid through the void as though carried on unseen tides.
At the helm, Harlock gripped the wheel, his crimson sight pulsing beneath the patch. He spoke commands so calmly they seemed inevitable.
"Helm, ten degrees yaw. Port guns ready. Wait…"
The crew held their breath.
"…fire."
The Arcadia burst from mist, her cannons tearing the belly from an escort that had thought itself hidden. She vanished before the others could turn their guns.
The crew erupted in cheers.
"By the Throne, he sees them before they fire!" one cried.
"No — the Arcadia shows him!" another answered.
"It's her hand that guides the wheel!"
Harlock said nothing. He only turned the helm again, his crimson sight blazing as the mist parted like a curtain before him.
For the crew of House Veynar, the battle turned to nightmare.
Shells flew into nothing. Lances struck phantoms. Torpedoes detonated against empty mist. And always, the skull prow appeared where it should not be, guns roaring, saber-toothed broadsides ripping another escort apart.
"Sir!" cried Veynar's sensor-master. "She's inside our formation! She shouldn't— she can't—"
The Arcadia slid between two grand cruisers, so close her hull scraped their void shields. Both ships turned their lances in panic, and both struck each other instead.
One erupted in flame, her engines gutted. The other drifted crippled, her bridge in ruins.
On the Arcadia's bridge, the roar of crew filled the air. Men pounded consoles, women raised their voices in song, void-born Arcadians wept with joy.
"She's not a ship!" Thomar growled, voice thick with awe. "She's a ghost! And we're her people!"
Harlock did not turn. He stared ahead, hand steady on the helm, crimson glow burning faint beneath his patch.
Let them whisper, he thought. Let them believe. For belief was a weapon sharper than any saber. And tonight, the Arcadia would carve her name into the stars.