Get up . . . I won't let a stone take my glory.
Formations of Miy'til starfighters escorting Sabaoth hex bombers soared passed the viewport. Hundreds of them. The Hapans and Vahlans of the Blazing Chain made their advance toward Coruscant, an armada filled with Sabaoth destroyers, Hapan battle dragons, and Nagai spider ships.
Gerra watched them from aboard the throne room spire on the Slayer of Sovereigns. A sacred pyre of Vahl burned in the midst of the throne room, hungry flames casting long shadows. He turned to regard them, staring deep into the tongues of fire, heedless of their heat. Twin oracles stood by, a Vahlan man and woman, ordained by the Ember of Vahl. In the pyre, they beheld the future.
"Tell me, oracles, what is to pass?"
The woman spoke, and her voice was as the hundredfold tongues of flame. "He chose violence."
The flames crackled and hissed, spitting sap from the logs which fed them.
"They chose the daggers." Spat the man.
"She chose the Pride of a Sovereign," answered the woman.
"The Horde stood." He said.
"The Horde failed," she cried.
Then, together, their voices rose, "Under heaven, there can be but one Qhan."
And Gerra, features lit by the pyre, grinned as the blood lust stole over him. The Mawite remnants would once more flee before him in the coming battle. Or they would perish all.
