Tyrant Queen of Darkness
"Drums of War."
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Steam—hissing, rolling, coiling through the vast chamber like ghosts denied burial. Shadows moved within it: the silhouettes of droids welding cannon barrels, conveyors bearing shells the size of coffins, molten metal pouring like blood through transparent channels. The heart of Malachor did not beat; it forged.
From the catwalk above, Darth Virelia watched the birth of destruction unfold beneath her.
The violet of her armor reflected in the surface of the safety glass, wreathed by the dull amber glow of plasma crucibles. Her hands rested lightly on the railing, claws of midnight phrik tracing faint marks into the alloy. Below, the rhythmic clash of mechanized arms and servo presses formed a kind of liturgy. Each impact was a prayer, each spark a benediction to the empire she was building.
"Cycle thirteen complete," came the report from a nearby overseer droid, its voice filtered through static. "Hellbore turrets reaching seventy-eight percent optimal calibration."
"Raise to eighty-five before inspection." Her tone was quiet, but it carried—cutting cleanly through the mechanical din. The droid bowed its head fractionally and skittered off to comply.
Virelia lingered. The air smelled of ozone and oil and something faintly sweet—residual alchemical compound from the shell tempering process. The scent reminded her of lightning on wet stone, and of the moment before pain. It pleased her.
Beneath her feet, a river of plasma pulsed through armored conduits, feeding the furnaces that shaped the weaponry of her fleet. VesperWorks engineers had once called this place the Abyssal Crucible during it initial construction, but she preferred its newer name—the, Ecliptic Foundry as it neared completion. Names changed when ownership did.
She straightened slowly, the movement unhurried, deliberate. "Status of the Leviathan project?"
A human aide, pale under the violet light, turned from his datapad. "Testing complete, my Lady. The magnetic rails can sustain triple-charge cycles. Prototype ready for field demonstration upon your command."
"Good."
The word came soft, almost intimate, but its weight landed like a seal of judgment.
Outside the transparisteel walls, Malachor's horizon flickered with constant storms—ashen lightning tearing through the black clouds that clung to the planet's broken skin. The Spire loomed distantly in that gloom, her throne and temple, but here in the factory she felt closer to the marrow of her dominion. Power was not meditated upon; it was manufactured.
Her gaze drifted to the far blast doors, still sealed. Somewhere beyond them, a shuttle was descending through the upper storm layers. Her visitor would arrive soon—prospective ally, or rival playing at diplomacy. It hardly mattered which.
Or maybe...
It was a trap?
