Faction Death to Traitors | A Operation Cinder Story

[The Contingency]

DEATH TO TRAITORS - A OPERATION CINDER STORY

​

For three standard days, Cademimu V sat in silence beneath a sky full of knives. The gravity well generators locked the system in place like a vice. No one who entered the system could leave. Trade routes vanished. Merchant guilds went dark. Civilian comms were jammed, leaving planetary officials isolated, blind, and increasingly desperate. The people of Cademimu, once the seat of the Dark Empire's administrative heart, whispered rumors of warlords, pirates, even the Galactic Alliance returning to reclaim the system. None of them were true.


The truth was worse.


Above them loomed the reassembled remnants of the Dark Empire's Loyalist Fleet. An armada assembled together for a singular purpose. Their command structure was silent, their orbital weapons were powered. From the capital towers of the shimmering capital to the mining colonies of the southern hemispehere, the silence was suffocating. Stormtrooper garrisons awaited instruction, confused and half-armed, unsure who held command. Loyalists in hiding powered up old comm buoys in vain, trying to make contact. No messages returned. Only the crimson silhouette of The Messenger broke the silence, arriving over the feeds of Star Destroyers and Loyalist Frigates in the dead of night.


Then it began.

OPERATION: CINDER

​

Summons had gone out days prior.

The loyal had heard them.

To the highest among the Dark Empire's command, a personal transmission was delivered by The Messenger . Cloaked in red and black, the Messenger's mechanical voice bore the unmistakable tone of authority. It spoke for the EMPEROR, it's command spread through the ranks, from superiors to the lowliest of soldiers, drawn back into the fold to reclaim the ashes of what once was.

"Cademimu V was the industrial heart of our empire, it chose to side with traitors and would-be warlords. The price is fire."

The command was clear. Death to traitors.

"Operation: CINDER is to begin at once."

All Imperial forces were to descend upon Cademimu V with overwhelming force. Targeted orbital bombardment was authorized. Valuable Imperial infrastructure, intelligence caches, manufacturing tools, and rare materials are to be seized en masse, stripped from the planet to fuel the Emperor's war machine. What could not be salvaged would be destroyed.

The Provisional Government of Cademimu V is to be disbanded, it's Regent captured alive.

His execution would not be quiet, it would be a message.

This was not a campaign of conquest. It was doctrine. A purge. A reminder that loyalty to the Empire, to it's Emperor, is eternal. Failure to uphold that loyalty is a capital crime. As the final loyalist ships broke through the upper atmosphere and assumed position above the smog covered clouds of the capital, a single phrase echoed through fleetwide channels:

"Long. Live. The Empire."

---

The citizens of Cademimu V turned their backs on the Empire during the Core Wars, now they will pay the price. Loyalist forces are ordered to commence orbital bombardments, target population centers harboring dissent, and crush all remaining military resistance. This will be a message to all those who would embrace dissent, betrayal will be met with annihilation. Those found guilty of harboring rebels or Imperial defectors are to be executed or used for labor, there are no other empires but THE EMPIRE. And only through fire, can that empire be reborn.​

---

As the bombardment begins, IRU's: Imperial Recovery Units are deployed to strip the planet of all strategic assets. Factories, databanks, munitions stockpiles, and ship components are to be seized. Officers and specialists are encouraged to secure high-value assets, interrogate key personnel, and ensure nothing of worth is left behind. Steal, requisition, or reclaim anything of value, whether starships or weaponry. Anything not taken is to be rendered unusable. The planet's worth will be measured not in lives spared, but in resources reclaimed for the new Empire.







​

 

[The Messenger]

The Messenger
Cademimu V

Cademimu V was the industrial heart of the Empire, the homeworld of Ignacious Korvan and the first of many worlds to flock to the Emperor's resurgent banner. Such a vital titan of industry had been sorely needed in the early days of expansion, as the engines of war turned. The doors to the bridge of the Annihilator opened, the air hung heavy with tension as The Messenger entered silently. Its sleek metallic form was hidden under a human-esque guise, adorned in the royal red of the Imperial Court, the humanoid figure contrasted sharply with the opulent surroundings, drawing the attention of all eyes from whence ever it traveled. An ominous hum emitted from the Sentinel droid as it approached, as if floating, adding to the mystique of it's nature.

The Sentinel remained stoic, its globe-faced visor fixed on the captain of the Annihilator, betraying no emotion, offering only a reflection back of the human male. After a brief moment it turned away and faced the exterior of the Star Destroyer, facing out into the void. The Messenger watched as Operation: Cinder began in earnest. Below, Cademimu V trembled, fire would soon bloom across its surface like blight spreading through a dying body. The world that once supplied the legions of the Emperor, the foundries that had birthed a thousand walkers, the factories that had minted stormtrooper armor and starfighter wings was now marked for total annihilation.

A low click-hum emanated from the droid's core as encrypted transmissions streamed in silence to its internal processors. Orders confirmed. Objectives aligned. Loyalty measured and found wanting. It raised a hand, palm facing downward - not in command, but in judgment. The ship's crew stood frozen as the Sentinel's voice activated, calm, mechanical, final.

"Begin planetary sterilization protocols."

​

 

[Daedalus Tarkin]

D E A T H - T O - T R A I T O R S
C A D E M I M U - V

​

Daedalus Tarkin was one of the first recipients of the directive issued by The Messenger . He couldn’t help but wear a wolfish grin as the crimson-clad orator delivered the orders, feeling glimmers of pride swell in his chat at the sight of his ancestral philosophy being employed once again by the Empire: the doctrine of fear.

Fear was a precious currency that funded the Empire like no other.

From the deck of his flagship, Dade watched as the Dark Empire cashed in that currency on Cademimu V. It was once an integral component of Imperial society, but like many other worlds, it turned its back after the Core Wars. They were knaves, cowards, and weaklings. Traitors to the Emperor. And they would be punished.

The Tarkin Initiative’s presence on Cademimu was purposeful and precise.

As a complement to the Imperial Recovery Units deployed planetside, Dade’s troopers and scientists had come to assist in the extraction of vital Imperial assets. Data, equipment, personnel; the Initiative was permitted to recover anything deemed valuable by Imperial command. And for such a monumental task, Daedalus himself had accompanied his forces, making a hyper jump from his base of operations on Anteevy to oversee the mission.

“Bring us down near the industrial sector,” Tarkin commanded. “Have our troopers secure the area. Eliminate any resistance and detain the others.”

“Yes, sir!” the pilot returned.

He followed his orders as Tarkin stepped closer to the viewport, watching as the skies above shifted to an angry, red-orange sea of clouds. Golden streaks of lightning webbed across the skyline, an ominous omen to the watching galaxy: the Empire has returned.

TAGS: OPEN​

 

[Thomas Barran]

TAGS
OPEN BUT APPROACH AT YOUR OWN RISK

BLOODHOUND - PART ONE​

CADEMIMU V,
HOME TO BETRAYERS (902 ABY)

When we called for aid in our breakout attempts.... Where were you?
When we were aiming to break the Corellian Cordon.... Why did we see no flotillas?

What was it about Bloodhound Khan that disgusted you enough to condemn us?
​

Time and time again, troopers and mercenaries alike would stumble across the same horrifying scene, and time and time again, there would be none with the good sense to back away and flee for their lives. Each disturbing the thoughts of the same masked nemesis, that one hooded swordsman, usually found seated, with legs crossed amid the slain in his solitary act of meditation, and each time the same result would befall every traitor who dared approach the Menace Behind the Mask.

​

As for the other attackers on the planet's surface, however, some would know this warrior, though others surely would not; yet the warrior in question, as much as the knowing had guessed, seemingly preferred to be left alone to his own devices. Thus the other attackers prudently warned their compatriots to leave him be, making minor changes in direction with the swordsman in mind specifically, with some even smiling at the prospect of having his brutal sort as potential allies in the near-future, but the rest could only avert their eyes in the hopes their life-expectancies remained unaltered as they passed him by.

Carlac was perfect, those blizzards - beyond mesmerizing.
Like the snows on Rhigar....
But this place, does it even deserve Nature's Reclamation?

Would it not infect the sacred flora an' fauna?
​

All the dead soon cluttered the space around the courtyard the warrior had chosen for his meditation, littered hither and yon with some slumped over benches, parked speeders and others across the approaching pathways, slowly but steadily piling up in proximity of that same solitary, mask-wearing swordsman, meditating in the courtyard's center-most spot. Returning to the middle every time his silence was assured once more, returning to that same cross-legged serenity every time the groaning and death-rattles subsided, giving way to controlled breathing - and the sounds of destruction further afield.

Some would see, though these witnesses in particular would report on their findings from a safe distance, and each time their commanding officers would promptly reply,"You don't want to know. Leave that one be if you value your lives.", but none would foresee what followed the conclusion of the warrior's meditation. Fortunately the reports would continue to filter down their chain-of-command, and much to the favour of the point their commanders were trying to make before, the ambiguously-aligned allies on the ground would find their justification when the hooded warrior started dragging the dead toward the center of the courtyard, toward the same spot where he was meditating just moments before.

I'll let the Dark Three decide.
I'll let - Him decide.

 

[Domaric Mordane]

Tags: The Messenger (Indirect), Thomas Barran , Daedalus Tarkin

From the bridge of the INV Executrix, Allegiant General Domaric Mordane stood still, arms clasped behind his back, as the world of Cademimu V burned beneath him.

Storms gathered over the planets equatorial belt, veiling the landmasses in bruised cloud cover, but they did not conceal the columned smoke that rose in defiance of atmosphere and gravity alike. Before striking, Mordane took one last moment to review the battlefield. There was no hesitation in him—only precision, calculation, and the cold arithmetic of justice.

He leaned slightly toward the central holo-display, watching as it rendered a shifting topography of the planet's surface. Tactical objectives blinked in sequence: power substations, communication towers, archives, garrison ruins. The red zones, marking confirmed insurgent control, pulsed in Sector 11 and spread unevenly into surrounding districts like rot through wood. Cademimu's capital was engulfed in chaos; industrial zones burned unchecked. From the heights of orbit, the damage resembled infection rather than resistance. The Empire's intervention was not conquest—it was cauterization. Fire cleanses.

The Empire remembers.

"Comms, report," Mordane said flatly, his voice cutting through the low thrumming hum of the bridge systems.

The comms officer was a Chiss Lieutenant, a strandcast grown from the genetic archives of the Final Dawn. Her posture crisp, she turned from her terminal. "IRUs are en route to Sector 13. Boarding parties have begun breach-and-secure operations. Infrastructure targets will be locked down within fifteen minutes. Orbital firepower is concentrated and standing by—awaiting your order."

He nodded once, though his focus remained tethered to the surface below. The act unfolding was not merely a tactical maneuver. It was a judgment. The citizens of Cademimu had once flown the Imperial banner. They were loyal. But in the chaos that followed Solipsis's vanishing and the fracturing of the Empire, they had strayed—seduced either by local warlords, pirate kings, or false republican promises. Now they would be reclaimed, not as citizens, but as material—future stormtroopers if they proved strong, biomass for labor if they did not. Mordane did not hunger for vengeance. He did not believe in hatred. This was something more precise. This was restoration.

Ironically, Mordane had never met the Emperor, though he had served the shadow of His Will. When Solipsis vanished, it was Marlon Sularen who raised him from the ranks, anointing him with the confidence of command. Mordane had accepted the mantle without hesitation. It was not lost on Mordane that Sularen was not present, however. No, the former Regent was somewhere within Confederate space, comfortable in his mediocre slot as Supreme Commander of their ragtag fleet. Sularen could remain with his contradictory Imperial Confederation. Mordane would serve the Emperor, as he had in the old wars. Loyalty is not obedience to the living. It is faith in a purpose beyond ambition.

"Prepare sterilization protocols," he ordered, his tone subdued but absolute. "Sector Eleven—engage and eliminate all known dissenters. No mercy. Sector Seventeen—gather all youth. They'll be processed and reformed. Their lives will be rebuilt in the Crucible."

Live feeds displayed the waves of IRUs descending through atmosphere, piercing the darkened skies like iron knives. Droid detachments deployed ahead of manned teams, sweeping ruins and broken infrastructure with clinical detachment. Tactical squads breached comm towers and archive hubs, siphoning databanks into mobile vaults. In other districts, factory strips were cordoned off and stripped for parts. Mordane watched without visible reaction as entire neighborhoods were emptied, their occupants rounded up and sorted. The operation proceeded like clockwork. Efficient. Controlled. Unforgiving.

From the belly of the Executrix, bright lances of energy carved downward through the void. Clouds parted like paper under flame. The bombardment struck in disciplined volleys—no errant destruction, not yet. Only the calculated collapse of structures deemed lost to resistance. Observation towers fell like dominos. Transportation hubs buckled. Communications nexuses disappeared in a bloom of dust and fire. Mordane did not flinch as the feed displayed each detonation in vivid clarity. He allowed himself a single breath—a quiet acknowledgment of necessity. This was not cruelty. It was consequence.

Without turning, he addressed the void: "Anakae. Status of lower decks?"

A voice answered—female, poised, toneless yet not without grace. "Decks seventeen through twenty-two are stable. Prisoner transport corridors active. Atmospheric containment secure. I have re-routed primary power to containment and launch protocols. Do you wish me to initiate full lockdown?"

"Yes, lock it all down." Mordane said quietly. "Begin staging recovery transports, begin a countdown and update the teams on the ground."

"Understood," she replied. "Empire First."

"Always First."

​

 

[Tyro Lok]

​

The shriek of ion engines tore through the ash-choked skies above Cademimu V as the matte-black silhouette of a TIE REAPER sliced through the atmosphere. Its shadow passed over broken towers and gutted streets, the decaying bones of a ecumenopolis that had once bent the knee to the Emperor. It hovered briefly above the shattered plaza outside what remained of the Tribunal's Administrative Center where burned banners hung in tatters, flapping like wounded things in the rising thermals of war.

Stormtroopers rushed forward, bearing the markings of whatever Imperial Remnant had ruled in their absence. Blasters primed, at the ready, the troopers aimed up at the REAPER as it hung overhead.

Then it dropped.

The Reaper's ramp slammed open with hydraulic finality. As it suspended in the air, the REAPER let loose from its belly figures cloaked in darkness, shadows wrapped in the Dark Side's embrace. These were the Emperor's Dark Jedi.

These were the Dark Side Elite.

And at their center descended a presence colder than the void. Tyro Lok stepped down into the smoke and ruin without a word. His black robes moved like liquid shadow, tight at the chest and draped around his arms as he touched down onto the cold shattered duracrete below. Over his head sat a helm of brushed durasteel, faceless and severe. The Dark Side pulsed from him in waves, the air warping around his form like a river-breaker, he was the stone in the pond. Tyro would give no rallying cry, extending one gloved hand toward his hip, calling forth his lightsaber.

Snap. Hissss.

The lightsaber sprung to life, emitting a crimson blade which danced to the beat of sudden blaster fire that rained down upon him and the others. The moment the traitors realized the gravity of their situation, they made for the double blast doors of the Tribunal's hold, launching cover fire in their wake.

An infantile display.

The Dark Jedi smashed his saber forward, ricocheting one of the many blaster shots back in the direction of it's origin. His hips swung his body in a tailspin, an upswing deflecting another projectile bolt haphazardly thrown his way. His left hand rose with an open palm, he pressed his arm forward, extending his elbow.

Two troopers fell to their knees, grasping and clenching toward their throat. Tyro squeezed, throwing his arm down toward the ground.

CRUNCH.

Something inside their armor snapped, their bodies ragdolling as they collapsed onto the ground.

The others regrouped, back against the wall as they tried to gain entry into the building, holding their ground as a unified squad. They had the numbers, they had the fortress, and yet... they never would stand a chance. The Dark Side Elite were coming, and a slaughterhouse awaited them.

 

[Thomas Barran]

TAGS
OPEN BUT APPROACH AT YOUR OWN RISK

BLOODHOUND - PART TWO​

CADEMIMU V,
HOME TO BETRAYERS (902 ABY)

I feel the Dark Lord's presence, I know its Him.
I know when someone opens the Rift from the other side.

I know when someone returns from the Nether, I know its Him.
​

Piling up the bodies of his fallen assailants, setting them into the makings of a tower on an evenly-squared foundation of plastoid armour, the hooded swordsman was setting to work in creating a rather ghoulish work of artistry, almost-completely unaware of the planetary assault as it ebbed and flowed on the streets around him. Or rather, the man in the mask could only remain oblivious for as long as the intervals lasted between each confrontation, but as time passed, these encounters would gradually dwindle in frequency with their according number of potentially-unlucky survivors.

Yet more would step forth as night gathered, reigning supreme over the planet's setting sun as the fear began to set it's claws upon the minds of the swordsman's assailants, each more daunted with every new challenger who bore witness to the rising tower, slowly ascending as an obelisk of ill-fated outcomes. To each a dead assailant in the making, each and every assailant would know their end was nigh, instantly assured that the man in the mask would step forth proudly as their executioner; come one, come all, it made no difference in moments when his Great-sword was singing.

Free to ring out with songs of beskar brutality.

He nears, HE nears.... As one materializes in a dream.
Should I-?
Pitiful, truly.

No, I never had the authority to even dare such a thing before, but-
Call out to your Dark Lord, DO IT!!!!
​

The first raindrops of an approaching storm then began to wash the traces of the most-recent clashes on the courtyard's smooth duracrete surface, washing the blood-spatter from the swordsman's blade as he sat resting at the base of his tower, intensifying as the night sky continued to darken; and yet, for all its nearing intensification to that of torrential extreme, the rain would have little to no effect whatsoever on the wider bloodbath across the city. Only washing away the dragged, puddled and spattered remnants of clashes already concluded, only a small inconvenience with such widespread destruction still ongoing at the time, but the rain would continue all the same.

But when loosely-aligned elements turned optics toward the hooded swordsman, they would find him left alone to meditate once more, cross-legged with posture straightened, seen returning, once again, to a state of inactivity until the next assailant strayed into his trap. Statuesque whilst everyone else descended into madness around the city, it appeared as madness to retain such serenity with so many corpses piling up behind him, like an eerily-quiet eye of a hurricane, meditating as violence swirled around his location in an endless loop of manic ferality.

~=Dark Lord, I reach out in conciliatory regard... An' duly invite you to find the Mawsworn, on Durace.=~

 

[Talon Draven]

​

They would know fear.

The figure stood outside what would be residential areas within the ruined city. He would take the strong and slaughter the weak. They wanted to be strong and defy The Empire, then they would know true strength.

Talon Dravis, or as his troops knew him as, Darth Gravis stood before the buildings in silence as his troopers stood behind him as people screamed and ran through the streets. Raising his right hand slowly, his fingers flexed as he grabbed a man running some 20 yards in front of him dead in his tracks and brought him ever so close to the mask he wore. As black as space itself traveling where no light reached. Clenching his hand in quick succession, the man before him dropped with a snapped neck.

It was all his troops needed to know it was time to go. Forward they surged into the housing buildings around them. Grab the strong and purge the weak.

They needed what they could get to bring back to rebuild and bring forward a greater world.

He walked behind his rushing troops, silent like a wild animal hunting it's prey. His cloak bellowed in the wind and smoke as it encircled their attack. Grabbing his lightsaber from his waist, he couldn't help but feel that excitement of battle run through him.

Vrshhhhhh.

It hummed rhythmically as he entered a large building. People sobbed, screamed and begged for their lives as the sounds of blasters echoed around him. It wouldn't be long before the rebel scum would arrive to try to save the lost souls that were bound to meet whatever it was they believed in.

With his left arm held out to his side in a gesture, he swept it across the air, forcing people to gather in a mass as his troopers shot and grabbed at men, women and children to see who was worthy. Their hubris of thinking that The Empire would forget was, in Talon's eyes, comical. Little did he find stuff funny in any way, but this...this was something else.

Doors were blasted open around him as his troopers entered and searched. It was then they finally appeared, shouting and shooting. Those who thought they would be heroes in their people's eyes. Those who thought they would defeat one of the Dark Side's Elite.

As their blasters shot through the open lobby, Talon deflected them with ease. His stance, unlike others who used either straight defense or offense, was smooth and calculative. Holding his own extremely easily as he countered and advanced forward with his troops.

He would fulfill his duty as he was told.

 

[Tor Harz]

Cademimu V | Open

Long Live The Empire

--------------------------------
​

Three generations of Imperials.

It all started with his grandfather Desarnte. The man was a fleet commander for the New Imperial Order of old. Bastion, Ziost, Muunilinst, all sites of his former engagements. He fought valiantly to achieve the position of power he held. Fleet "Ruinbreaker" struck fear in the hearts of many defiant peoples. Though one day the old man's match was met on Nirauan fighting the wicked Brotherhood of the Maw. Ironic; the savages that his family once battled were what built up the Dark Empire into what it became.

Next was his father, a disgraceful solider by the name of Scourge. The man was only a shadow of his grandfather, wasting his life away by acting as an embarrassment to the Empire. The political and militant power of the group was already depleting, but his father jumped ship long before, opting to become a mercenary along with the rest of his platoon. Such talent pissed away into fighting for the highest bidder. A pathetic life. His father's only saving grace was Tor's mother, a handmaiden to a king that Scourge was once hired to protect. The two fell in love and gave birth to Tor a few years later. Early on the boy took a great interest in war and history, learning of his grandfather's might. When the child learned that his father chose to disgrace his family's name, Tor become disgusted.

Lying about his age, Tor enlisted into the stormtrooper corps of the Dark Empire at sixteen. Basic was passed with flying colors. Soon the boy was being transformed into the ultimate soldier. That is what led him to Cademimu V. It was his first true test, his first live combat experience. Today was also his eighteenth birthday. And what better way to celebrate than to prove his worth within Operation Cinder.

--------------------------------​

A squadron of troopers made their way into the city, directing their attention to Section 8. Loyalists, rebels, civilians, all the same in the eyes of the Empire. The men moved with efficiency and a tactical formation equivalent to that of a seasoned crew. Each solider was on their first mission together. Trained together, serve together, thrive together. All for the Empire.

Off towards the left of the squadron, a flurry of people ran out from a medium-sized building on the verge of collapsing. Utilizing the confusion, Tor aimed his rifle and began to fire. Three quick shots, each to the head of an individual rebel. Shots rang out from either side of him, the fellow soldiers each eliminating two threats of their own.

Movement did not stop though. Proceeding deeper into the section, more and more people were eliminated. No survivors. They would pay for their treachery.

 

[Thomas Barran]

TAGS
OPEN BUT APPROACH AT YOUR OWN RISK

BLOODHOUND - PART THREE​

CADEMIMU V,
HOME TO BETRAYERS (902 ABY)

<"Myonne to Brute! Have you still got eyes on the swordsman?">
<"Brute to Myonne! I got a clean, panoramic view on optics. Nothin' new to report though.">
<"Roger.... Myonne - out!">
​

Beholden to whatever will had guided him to that courtyard in the first place, and obligated enough to persist in absolute stillness, the man in the mask remained like marble, unshifting as he sat under the rainy torrent. Appearing as something dominant to many a distant observer, and to others, as an entity of imposing power; and with his slowly-growing tower of corpses in clear view of careful spectators, there was no mistaking the hooded warrior's warning to all who were watching him at the time, further-intriguing the lucky few with long-distance optics. Even without the rising tower considered, the unwitting garrison troops would die by the swordsman's blade either way, but after watching him sitting in meditative earnest for so long, friendly and opposing scopes alike would be drawn to appreciate the sight for what it was.

They all knew it to be a brazen, ascendant level of calm, the sort that could only belong to a conqueror, the sort that only a ruler of far-reaching renown could express with that same air of legitimacy, but then the screaming whistle of an inbound glide-bomb soon distracted the watchers. But when the glidebomb impacted, (and with enough force that the resulting shockwave reached ear-popping extremes all the nearest surrounding city districts-) the desired target would become obvious almost immediately, cutting power to at least half the inner-city skyrises in one fell swoop, in full-blackout before the culprit TIE-Bomber squadron could fully-appreciate the fruits of their handiwork.

And all before the observers could correctly guess the real identity of the hooded swordsman.

<"Damnit! I can't see chit!">
<"Ace One to Joker Four! Calm your mind - switch over to NODs.">
<"Alright, switching now.... Joker Four - out!">
​

Switching to nightvision optics, the watchers on the rooftops would shudder to find the hooded warrior seated exactly as he was before, remaining fixed in the exact same place, still quite unaffected by the previous shockwave. But this time, the armed spectators would be more than a little disturbed to find that he was still obviously meditating, but also choosing to continue in the dark; and with the rainstorm still raging on at the time, the swordsman would finally be seen as something more than that which he was previously assumed to be, something infinitely more devoted than the discipline required to clear the mind.

<"Myonne, you there?">
<"Yeah, what is it?">
<"The warrior is a man of faith.... Bogan, Heathen maybe?">

 

[Imperius Indomitus]

W A R M A S T E R
LORD INDOMITUS
Through war, we bring order.
Through strength, we bring unity.

The Iron March
Order. Strength. Discipline.

| Tor Harz | Talon Draven | Tyro Lok |

THE OLD ORDER​

Cademimu V | Outer System | Imperator Rex

The Imperator Rex appeared from hyperspace, then the Valor, the Indomitus and half a dozen more ships. The First and Second Battlelines of the reformed Death Squadron appeared in the Cademimu V system, the hulls of their warships slowly gliding through real space, the tip of the spear, the Wrath of the Empire itself. Imperial had many faces, but nothing as intimidating and indomitable as its Star Destroyers. It was the incarnation of power, of domination, the will of the Empire incarnated in steel and weapons.

Imperius black eyes observed what was happening in front of him, the presence of a substantial Dark Empire aligned presence, not merely a petty remnant, but a force with a purpose. He had hunted the minions of the absent Emperor, his new Sith as the vermin they were, petty creatures attached to the robes of greater strength, blind fools following an ideology as idiotic as the Sith could get when in utter desperation. But now, now he had returned - without his followers and just a single phrase: Operation Cinder.

Imperials believed in order. Imperial followed purpose. If the creature that was Darth Solipsis , his title damned, was capable of bringing that to the almost lost imperial cause in these trying times, it was worth to witness their return. The Confederation was misguided, its peaceful and compromise-oriented nature an affront to Imperial Hegemony. Not to mention an empty uniform as ruler and an overall lack of ambition. There was little hope for the Iron Sun to rise with them. Yet this resurfacing Emperor had disappeared before, twice, was the leader of the Maw and wrecked havoc across the Galaxy. A Sith, a convoluted plan, layers of deception - all worthless. A new Empire needed - required - straight forward rule and leadership. Was he capable of that? Or would this Operation Cinder continue as the Maw had ended and as the Dark Empire had fallen, with strategic folly and wild, useless devastation?

"Advance the fleet. Battle stations. Hail them and make sure we are not destroying each other before we know if we are facing maw-imperial marauders under disguise of an Imperial remnant or if they are fighting for true order." The Warmaster's voice echoed across the bridge, with the Admiral and Captain quickly obliging.

His black eyes observed the flashes and ships ahead, not merely through their own ability, but his mind accessed the sensors and scanners of the ship's systems to actually see what was going on. In any case, he would not leave the opportunity to gain resources pass by.

"Prepare for ground deployment, assault landing." It was very possible that hostile forces were present. "Indomitus and 181st will be deployed together. Prepare the speartip. First Host and the Wyverns. Full fighter and gunship cover."

Behind him the black armored figure of the Indomitus Legion saluted with his fist on the chest plate, while the Stormtrooper commander stiffened at attention. The fight for resources was as vital as the ending of any Imperial remnants, either by annihilation or integration, the latter especially true for any and all weapons, supplies, manpower, technology and ships. Cademimu held not only troops but also their supplies and needed to be reintegrated.

It would be the first time the Indomitus Legion was deployed under the Iron Sun.

More importantly, it was the moment when it would show who was fighting who.

 

[Ellayina L'lerim]

Information

Objective: Purge the Traitor
Location: Cademimu V
Equipment: White uniform | Viper Mk. I Skinsuit || Empyrean gland || OPBC-01m
Tags: The Messenger | Shannic Wulf | Open

"Galactic Common" | <"High Nelvaanian"> | ["Essonian"] | ~ telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

The last two years seemed long and far away, but the wait was rewarding for Ella. The young woman left the Dark Empire when Darth Solipsis disappeared and Marlon Sularen and Imperius Indomitus seized power and destroyed the Empire. The woman refused to serve traitors, not to mention that her mentor Shannic Wulf also left because she refused to serve traitors. So all in all, there was no question as to what Ella would decide. And she didn't even mention that they had no way of knowing whether Solipsis was dead or not. The ship had crashed, yes; but a Sith Lord, especially one as powerful as the Emperor, could survive things. And as it turned out, her faith and loyalty paid off.

After leaving, she went not to her home, not to Aaven, but to the home of HPI and House L'lerim, Terraris. It was a pleasant disappointment for Ella that her mentor stayed with her, so they stayed in touch for the next two years and the younger woman learned from her mentor all the way. True, not only from her, but once she was HOME she also took advantage of the opportunities her family provided, and so she learned within Nite and gained more influence there. During this period, she was mostly here until finally the The Messenger message reached her, the Emperor was alive and back.

The woman remained loyal and loyal to the end, just like her mentor, so there was no question that when the call came, she left for Cademimu V to join the Imperial Army, as the message said. Not to mention that Ella was ready to execute Operation: Cinder and get the job done. She also kept the SHADES with her, those who remained loyal, but since most of them were loyal to her, now they could return.

Only before all this, she had accompanied her mentor to a very important, secret meeting and discussion. But returning to the present, when the ship dropped out of hyperspace, she began broadcasting her own previous ID to the fleet, which was her previous address, the ISB Director ID. She even opened a channel to The Messenger 's ship at the same time as the ID - which was probably the flagship here now around Cademimu V.

<< This is Ellayina L'lerim, the former ISB Director of the Dark Empire. I am here to answer the call; under Operation Cinder orders, I am sending SHADES troops loyal to the Empire to the planet to fulfill the order. Where do you need me? >> asked the woman on the comm line.

Then came the familiar patient waiting for a response from the other ship. Fortunately, she had had time to learn patience over the past two years, and the L'lerim bloodline were generally patient anyway, so she had no problem waiting on the bridge of her own ship for a little while longer. Perhaps she would eventually be called upon by her mentor, or given another assignment, after all, her skills were quite useful, especially in interrogations and interrogations.

Now this short waiting time, after the long one before, was really nothing.

 

[Shannic Wulf]

​

Ellayina L'lerim | All loyal forces loyal to Solipsis

Grand Vizier Shannic Wulf
In high orbit above Cademimu V
Annihilator
Operational Command Fleet
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>​

There was a divine poetry in her escape to Terraris. That cold world, far from the centre of the galaxy, stood secluded and unyielding—once the seat of the great and indomitable Eternal Empire.

She had left behind everything.

When Solipsis fell, the cohesion of government fell with him. She held what power she could, but the petty infighting began in earnest. After years of tepid and watchful silence, the waiting factions burst into frenzy. Her struggle to fulfil the promises of a stronger Empire had all but failed. The system remained rigged—not for the people, but for the corporations and the politicians who guarded the status quo for their own gain.

She disappeared in stages. First, under the covert custody of Alliance agents who smuggled her from house arrest. Then into the hands of those more loyal, under Ellayina L’lerim’s command, who brought the former Grand Vizier into hiding, far from reach.

Wulf had not been idle. Even in exile, her presence stirred movements. Her silence drew attention. Her survival gave shape to fear.

And she passed on what she knew.

Ellayina remained close. A sharp and loyal mind, tempered by hardship and honed by clarity. Wulf had trained her in the old ways—strategy, subterfuge, doctrine—and shaped her not only as a student, but as a weapon. The girl had chosen loyalty over survival. Principle over power. She would become the scalpel to Wulf’s fire.

The old remnants handed power to the treacherous Sularen, who had begun securing his position long before Solipsis was struck down. Wulf saw it coming. She prepared accordingly. They moved against her office, believing it a shell. Without Solipsis behind her, they thought she would vanish.

They mistook silence for defeat.

Yes, she was no longer the voice of the Dark Side. No longer the fire at its centre. But she was still its student. Its architect. Its echo.

Without him, she was small.
But she still knew what they did not.
So she waited.

They said he had died. That the ship was gone. That nothing could have survived. But Wulf knew better. The flame that vast would not be extinguished by metal or velocity. Not Solipsis. Not the Sun.

The cold of Terraris only clarified what she had long understood: the galaxy would not be reasoned into salvation. It would need to be purged. Not by reform, but by fire.

To her, that was what Solipsis was.

He was Sun and nebulae. The power of atoms colliding with the fury of collapsing stars. He was the culmination of the Dark Side, not merely a wielder, but its will, shaped into form.

He was purification. Through flame. Through destruction. Through truth.

In him, she saw the means to scour the galaxy of weakness. To strip away the hollow, the cowardly, the corrupt. To leave behind only the scourged. The tested. The pure.

She had seen what others could not. The Senate’s halls reeked of decay. Its ministers spoke of order but dealt in delay. The masses were fed illusions of liberty and bled of strength. They had not risen. Not truly. So she would rise in their place.

There were names she remembered. Some betrayed her. Some stood firm. Some did not deserve what came. She did not mourn them. But she had not forgotten. The new order would be built atop memory.

Before the signal was sent, before The Messenger carried the voice of the Emperor to the stars, Wulf descended once more into the vaults beneath Terraris. Ellayina was with her. What they did there, what was spoken, was not recorded. But it mattered. It had to be done before the return.

She had signed the dormant protocols in silence; some terrible, some precise. Operation: Cinder was among them. A doctrine of retribution. Not of mindless destruction, but of cleansing flame. Only a few held the right to enact it. Fewer still understood it. Ellayina was one.

Near three standard years passed before his call reached her. She never once doubted it would. In that time, she prepared. She manoeuvred through the Corporate Guilds, diverted funds, protected assets, and laid the foundations.

Not for survival.

For return.

For reckoning.

And all the while, the usurpers played at rule.

They governed not with vision, but with fear. They hoarded power as a miser hoards coin. A shadow-throne, propped up by mercenaries and lies. There was no heir. They were but undertakers.

Let them prepare. Let them whisper of legitimacy. Let them fortify.

It will avail them nothing.

She had left only a shadow of herself behind.

But she would return ablaze. An effigy of fire. She would sunder the dark. She would cast out the remnants of her failures.

And when the flames passed, there would be silence. Then order. Not imposed by inheritance or wealth, but by strength. The galaxy would not be ruled. It would be disciplined.

She had read the texts. She had walked the forgotten vaults of Vahldros. She had heard the verses they sealed away.

The Sun returns not in peace, but in wrath.

She was not merely its servant.
She was its herald.
And already, she could feel the ripple.
The plan was in motion.

The blade had left the sheath.

She stood near the operations deck, just short of the bridge, and watched as officers and subordinates made light work of the destruction. The room pulsed with calm efficiency; no shouting, no chaos, only precision.
The Emperor would be pleased. Their surprise assault on the old homeworld of the former Imperator was not only devastating, it was symbolic.
That figure, long dead, nearly forgotten, had become little more than a bogeyman used to frighten wayward children. Now his ashes would serve a new purpose.

"Admiral. You have quite outdone yourself. The Emperor will be encouraged to know he can still rely on soldiers of courage and aptitude."

She turned to face Admiral Garrick. Her black robes caught the cold light of the bridge, stark against the sickly green glow of the durasteel consoles and septic overheads. The space pulsed with muted illumination, all sterile lines and shadowed corners, as if the ship itself were holding its breath.

 

[Meliant]

Cademimu V - Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side​

Objective: Mandatory Tithing
Progress: Meliant will complete his work in [2] posts unless interrupted.

The temple on Tython was bigger. Or it was more accurate to say it had been bigger. By now it was likely a pile of rubble, dismantled and purged by the Jedi liberators. Meliant never did have the opportunity to visit.​

​

This one on Cademimu, though, he had seen plenty of times. An austere, black monolith which rose threateningly from among the sky scrapers. It did not quite radiate with the Force but it did project something mystic, dark, and inscrutable. Fearful. His shuttle touched down in one of the higher-level hangars.​

​

When he disembarked, a small retinue of the faithful were waiting for him and extending quite pious, somber greetings. These were some of the senior ministers, black-robed, pallid, and sunken-eyed. The idealized cultist. Complete and utter dupes.​

​

"We knew the Sith'ari would return," one of them was saying, "We have kept our faith in his absence, and awaited his coming, even if the governors have not."​

​

Death Troopers were disembarking after Meliant, pushing empty gravsleds and leading floating data processing droids past these devotees. He imagined there were more inside, heads bowed in rapturous prayer. If they only knew.​

​

Meliant rested both his hands casually on the hilt of his lightsaber and did not bother wasting too many words on them. "Open the feretory. Open the archives. Quickly."​

​

To their credit, the ministers showed no hesitation. They complied quietly, leading some of Meliant's team to the feretory... While the rest, and Meliant himself, were brought to the archives.​

 

[SCAR]

SHADOW LEADER
"SCAR"
Shadow Squadron

​

Flares of crimson and orange burned against a smog-choked atmosphere, streaks of turbolaser fire tracing lines of judgment across the horizon. High above the planet's endless cityscape, nestled between black clouds and the flickering glare of orbital fire, the scream of twin ion engines cut through the heavens.

Shadow Squadron had arrived. Icons of Imperial Glory.

Shadow Squadron was one of many boasting the infamous symbols of imperial might.

SCAR, the callsign of the man behind the polished black helmet, leaned into the throttle of his TIE Interceptor as it veered into position. Around him, the battered sounds of dropped payloads followed. Shadow Squadron's sleek interceptors formed a spearpoint escort for the lumbering TIE bombers in their wake, rolling thunder sounding off throughout the ecumenopolis. Below, the lights of the capital city flickered like a terminal patient's last breath, the sprawling metropolis, once seat of power and pride for the Dark Empire, had been marked for annihilation under the Emperor's decree.

He watched the bombers line up their next run.

"Shadow Three, keep high," SCAR barked into his mic. "They've still got active anti-air." The closer to the old administrative heart of the Dark Empire, the more defended it became. The former emplacements meant to protect Imperial assets now being desperately utilized to stave off annihilation. Turbolasers lanced up from hidden towers, but SCAR banked hard, evading effortlessly. His ship screamed past the dome of a shattered reactor building before snapping into position alongside the lead bomber.

"Payload away," came the flat voice from Bomber One.

This wasn't vengeance. This was protocol. SCAR grinned under his helmet, a grim expression none would ever see. "Shadow Squadron, break and burn."

 

[Innis Tarring]

SHADOW SQUADRON
"ACE"

SCAR | Allied Imperial Fighters
​

"Copy that, boss," Innis Tarring said, calm and cocky, like he was ordering caf, not flying into a warzone. "Shadow Two adjusting to cover the port spread. Bombers can send flowers later."

He rolled his Interceptor into a shallow dive, nudging the rudder to cut drift. Targeting display flashed amber; tracking scramble. He didn't flinch. Just leaned in. The stabilisers screamed. The canopy rattled under crosswinds still bleeding from re-entry.

"Two klicks to grid. Hostiles pinging from an old civic node—bad wiring. Let's pull the plug."

He switched to burst fire. Dropped out of auto-assist. Tipped nose-down into the storm.
Flak lit up the sky. Red bolts lanced past on every side. A warning screeched—ion burst close—he rolled right, hard. Static rippled through his HUD as it grazed his starboard wing.

"That nearly singed my trim vane," he muttered, grinning. He dipped under a support strut and corkscrewed around a collapsing comms tower. Turbolasers tracked behind—too slow.

Through the smoke: AA battery, older Imperial Grade, but still barking.

Throttle down. Target zoomed. Lock at 1.3 klicks.

"Guns hot. Shadow Two engaging ground battery, vector one-seven-two. Dropping to four hundred."

Twin bolts leapt from the cannons. First pair tore through the pylon. Second hit dead centre.

Explosion. Fire. Shrapnel across the skyline.

"Target down."

He snapped into a climb, inertial dampeners groaning.

Ping.

"Bomber Two, losing repulsor balance! Starboard coil's failing!"

Innis didn't think; just acted.

"Shadow Two on intercept," he snapped. "Hold course. I'm with you."

He rolled inverted, bled speed to match. The bomber dipped beneath him, leaking smoke, limping through thickening flak.

He loosed suppressive fire, wide and heavy. Rooftops flared. Towers disintegrated. Turrets blinked out in flame.

"Path's clear. Drop it."

The payload fell: concussive charges and plasma rounds tumbling like dead stars. The block below vanished in fire. The shockwave slammed his shields. The whole TIE bucked.

"If I was any closer," he coughed, laughing, "I'd be brushing plasma off my teeth."

He keyed into squad-wide comms; didn't need to but maybe SCAR was listening.

"Shadow Two confirms splashdown. Bombs on target, zone cleared. You catch that one, boss?"

Only static.
Innis laughed under his breath. "Maybe next run."

Ping. Movement.

"Contact-ten low. One bogey. Sloppy bastard."

He peeled off, pitched into a tight dive. Burned full throttle. Felt the ship rise under his fingers, bone and stick working together. The enemy fighter tried to break.

"Not today."

Lock. Fire. Three quick bursts. The enemy burst mid-spin—flames, wreckage, then nothing.

"Splash one."

SCAR's voice sliced through: "Shadow Squadron, break and burn."

Innis straightened, smirk stretching wide under the helmet.

"Finally," he muttered. "Was starting to get bored."

He slammed into afterburner. Climbed hard, banking past a crumbling tower. Debris scraped across his shields like shrapnel off a drum.

"Breaking and burning, boss," he said, "Throttle pegged. Guns primed. Shadow Two is away. Let's give these gundarks a send-off they won't forget."

 

[Domaric Mordane]

Location: INV Executrix, above Cademimu IV
Tags: Aldo Garrick | Shannic Wulf

The chamber was cold, wide, and faintly concave—by design. The acoustics made even breath sound like it echoed, and the polished durasteel walls, with embedded surveillance slits and pulse lighting, gave it the feeling of a surgical theater rather than a welcome hall. Sixty-three children stood in two ranked columns. None of them spoke. Most were between ten and thirteen standard years; all wore the same gray shift and boots issued during intake.

Allegiant General Domaric Mordane entered without ceremony, flanked only by a silent protocol officer and two custodians in matte-white armor, faceless beneath their visors. The children didn't know him—only that he wore black and red, that his gloves gleamed, and that the adults around him never contradicted his presence. His expression did not soften.

"Children of Cademimu," Mordane began, his voice cutting clean through the chamber's silence, "welcome home."

A few heads twitched at that—whether in fear, confusion, or memory, he couldn't yet tell. The air filtration hissed softly overhead. Behind the curved walls, Anakae watched—her consciousness fragmented across a hundred embedded sensors, collecting data on pupil dilation, posture, voice stress, and more. The AI's low vocal signature hummed quietly into Mordane's earpiece.

"Heart rates elevated. Forty-seven percent in adrenal response. Seventeen appear dissociative."

Mordane continued. "This was not punishment. Not truly. Cademimu broke from the Empire long ago, taught your elders that freedom meant license. That discipline was weakness. That disorder was a right."

He moved slowly down the column, his boots echoing in the bay. One girl, maybe eleven, glared up at him as he passed. He stopped. She held his gaze, and he nodded slightly—appreciative, but not indulgent.

"You are not here to suffer," he said. "You are here to be made whole. The world you knew is gone—but you remain. And I will tell you something most of your elders never dared to: survival is a gift."

The Custodians activated the wall displays. Footage from the surface showed the orbital strikes resuming—glowing trails carving deep into the industrial quarter. A refinery exploded in red bloom. Mordane did not look away, nor did he ask them to. Several children flinched. One boy began to cry softly.

"Good," Mordane said without cruelty. "Feel what must be felt. Mourn them. Then remember them. Their choices gave you this future."

He stopped again at the head of the columns. A black-cased datapad extended from the protocol officer, and Mordane took it.

"These are your new identities. Your old names are archived, sealed. You will learn to respond to designation, rank, and role. You are candidates of the Crucible now. Some of you will become officers. Some will become stormtroopers. A few of you may even fail."

He made a mental note. The girl. Row two, third from the front. Aggressive. Useful.

Mordane handed off the datapad and faced them one last time.

"The Executrix is not a prison. It is a gate. Pass through it, and you will emerge as something the galaxy has not seen in generations—true Imperials. Unbroken. Unswayed. And loyal not to men, but to purpose."

He turned and left them there, silent and shaken but still standing. Behind him, the Crucible's induction lights dimmed, then flared crimson. Automated tones began the first round of aptitude scans and neuroplasticity assessments. The children would not sleep tonight. But by morning, they would begin to forget.

Back on the bridge, the air felt drier—emptier somehow. Mordane resumed his place at the command platform, greeted by the blinking indicators of finalized strike patterns and asset withdrawal. Lieutenant Zara, the Chiss strandcast, awaited his word. Anakae's voice slipped once more into his ear, and Mordane gave a single, shallow nod.

"Hail the Annihilator," he said, without emotion. "Advise the Grand Vizier that Executrix and her escorts have concluded our business here and will begin to withdraw our assets and...prizes. Once our evacuation is complete, we will await her final order to sterilize the planet."

 

[Arcturus Vyne]

Location: Irkalla's Grasp, Site-Weapons Development Annex Theta-Seven


Irkalla's Grasp slipped into the skies above Cademimu V. From orbit, the once-industrial world resembled a cauterized wound, its atmosphere choked with black smoke, flaring plasma, and the sharp, surgical impact signatures of a targeted orbital bombardment. Massive defense grids cracked open under coordinated strikes, their centuries-old alloys turned to ash as the Imperial war machine, long thought buried, made its return.

Within her command sanctum, Director Arcturus Vyne stood before a hemispherical display of the planet below. No dramatic lighting. No heraldic music. Only the mechanical thrum of his vessel's heartbeat and the sterile silence of absolute focus. His synthesized voice, baritone, emotionless, cut through the air like a scalpel.

"Commence atmospheric descent. Site Theta-Seven is to be quarantined within the hour. I want every vault stripped and secured before traitorous factions can destroy or deny us access to any asset."

The site in question, Weapons Development Annex Theta-Seven, had once belonged to the Department of Advanced Munitions under the Cademimu High Command. Officially decommissioned years ago, Vyne knew better. Beneath its rusted shell lay forbidden prototypes and black science, chemical weapons, gene-coded viruses, and a sealed lab rumored to house a sentient algorithm designed for planetary behavioral manipulation.

The descent had been calculated. The timing was perfect. Atmospheric resistance, according to intercepted comms, was expected to be negligible, scattered traitor units on the ground mostly. But as the Irkalla's Grasp came into low orbit over Annex Theta-Seven, the truth revealed itself in muzzle flash and anti-air fire.

The annex had not been abandoned, it had been fortified. Shielded auto-turrets were ready to fire. Trenches, pillboxes, and sensor-jamming fields and been hastily thrown together in a makeshift defense. The traitors had not only survived, they had prepared. Within the command center, red warning lights blinked softly across the strategic hololith. Officers spoke in sharp, efficient bursts, but none raised their voice. All waited for Vyne. He stood silent, unmoving, observing the site on the holo-projector.

The final director spoke in his brass-synthesized voice.

"Open missile bays two through six. Deploy Aorth-6 ballistics. Grid Delta-Five through Echo-One. Full atmospheric breach."

Aorth-6 was a biologically engineered necrotic virus that, when inhaled, liquified the inside of the victim's bodies. Stormtrooper helmets filtered smoke, not biological agents or toxins.

A tremor passed through the crew of the ship's bridge. Deep within Irkalla's Grasp, the missile launch bays opened to reveal missiles unlike any in standard Imperial arsenals. Its hull was smooth, gunmetal black, etched with no serial number, only a singular ring of pale green at its midpoint. A prototype weapon designed for orbital bombardment.

Moments later, the missiles screamed toward the surface.