Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"Consider this, your examination"
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Kali'ka
The shuttle dropped from hyperspace like a blade into the throat of night.
Kazarak IV filled the viewport—an unassuming sphere of deep green and ochre swirled with gauzy banks of cloud. From orbit, it looked serene, almost pastoral. But the readouts scrolling across the flight console told a different story: dense jungles swallowing whole the husks of forgotten war, rivers choked with mineral runoff, and the heat—humid, unrelenting—clinging to everything that dared to breathe.
It was Galactic Alliance territory, patrolled lightly but watched constantly. That meant approach had to be exact.
Kali'Ka's ship—sleek, lightless, teeth hidden behind polished hull plating—slid between the orbiting satellites on a narrow gap in their overlapping sensor cones, a path plotted long before the mission ever left her lips. The cloak systems hummed faintly, invisible hands drawing a shroud across its form as it descended.
Below, the target emerged from the cover of thick jungle canopy: a squat, low-slung facility of old permacrete and durasteel, its surfaces faded to dull gray, smothered by vines and fungus. The edges of its landing pad were fractured and mossy, overgrown to the point of collapse. No bright banners or holosigns marked it—only the dull amber glow of shield emitters flickering fitfully over the landing area, just strong enough to keep out the worst of the storm winds.
And there were storm winds tonight.
The clouds were swollen and electric, heavy with rain that hadn't yet broken. In the distance, thunder rolled low and constant, shaking the sky with the promise of a coming downpour. It gave the air a weight, a taste of metal and tension, like the pause before a gunshot.
On the edge of the compound, figures moved—sentinels in loose civilian garb, some with blasters slung carelessly over their shoulders, others with nothing more than shock batons. They didn't pace like military guards. They drifted, sometimes glancing toward the trees, sometimes toward the main gate, as if they were here less to repel an enemy and more to keep something in.
Inside the main building, light spilled from wide, open windows—soft golden pools on the rain-slick permacrete. Faint silhouettes passed in front of the glow. A few voices rose and fell in laughter, others in low, droning conversation. Somewhere deeper in the structure, a single voice carried with quiet authority, almost meditative in cadence.
Olven.
Even without the dossier, it was easy to imagine him there. The one who spoke of peace, who whispered redemption into broken ears. Virelia's words on the dais were still enough to sharpen his image—the pacifist seer playing prophet in the ruins.
Beyond the compound, the jungle pressed in, dense and restless. The trees here were broad and gnarled, roots rising high above the soil in curling ridges, vines hanging like ropes from their limbs. The air beneath them was dim, full of insect hum and the distant howl of unseen creatures. In the dark, the jungle felt alive in a way that was not entirely natural.
The mission parameters were clear. Infiltration. Observation. Isolation. Elimination. Just a message—written in pain and finality, for all who dared to speak his name afterward.
Somewhere high above the canopy, the shuttle's running lights blinked once before cutting out entirely. Its descent would end in the shadow of the treeline, far enough to keep the facility from seeing its landing, close enough to reach on foot without losing precious hours.
The storm clouds shifted, lightning etching jagged veins across their underbellies. The light flared briefly on the permacrete walls, making their cracks and creeping vines stark in the flash—then all was dark again, save for the dull amber shimmer of the shield dome and the distant, faint light of the meditation hall.
The air was waiting.
So was the kill.