In another region of the universe, far from the Ivory Isles, a solar system bathed in a light of almost unreal purity.
A gigantic sun, of immaculate white, reigned at the center of this stellar kingdom. Around it orbited countless planets, all marked by the passage of war. This system had been conquered. Not by chaos, but by the burning order of the Kōyōjin.
The war had extended even to these distant reaches of the universe, sowing chaos across entire worlds. This solar system had not been spared. Situated at the frontiers of conquered territory, in a galaxy placed under the authority of the Kōyōjin, it still bore the scars of battles that had nearly reduced it to ashes.
At the heart of this celestial expanse lay a planet of breathtaking landscapes.
Two moons dominated its night sky. One of a deep, soothing blue, like a sea suspended in the void. The other radiating a violet glow, almost sacred, as if it carried within it the memory of something ancient.
Tall mountains split the horizon. Immense rivers crossed through them, winding their way down to vast and silent seas. Lush forests blanketed the earth, populated by creatures as diverse as they were strange — some harmless, others capable of devouring entire armies.
It was at the center of a colossal plain that the army had established its base.
The earth itself had been transformed.
A titanic bastion of stone and marble rose proudly, sculpted with near-divine precision. Massive ramparts. Towers engraved with solar symbols. Monumental gates forged to withstand the apocalypse itself.
Fewer than ten thousand warriors resided there.
But each of them belonged to the absolute elite, placed directly under the authority of a sacred general.
At the summit of the bastion, bathed in the light of the white sun, stood Ignivar Valeflammis.
His body seemed to have been sculpted from the very heart of a star. Slender, elegant, yet bearing a crushing power, he exuded a natural nobility that even his enemies found difficult to deny. His eyes were two braziers of pure, eternal flame. His brilliantly red hair rippled like a living fire beneath an invisible wind.
In his hand rested a lance forged from molten metal, always incandescent, radiating a divine glow.
His armor, made from an unknown alloy, seemed designed to survive the wars that destroy worlds.
Despite this terrifying appearance, his gaze was calm.
Benevolent, even.
Ignivar was just. Courageous. But when he had to make a decision… he made it without hesitation.
Behind him stood his commanders.
The first was a woman of slender silhouette, almost unreal, as if her presence defied the laws of matter. Her storm-colored hair floated gently despite the absence of wind. Her deep grey eyes seemed to contemplate far more than the visible world.
Her name was Sabelle Orageval.
High priestess-warrior of the Kōyōjin, bound to the Church of the Primordial Sun. Her grey armor, fashioned from an exceptional metal, bore ancient engravings linked to the sacred and divine judgment. She embodied faith — the link between the primordial sun and the celestial order.
She was not a frontline combatant.
She was the one who saw.
At her side stood a man of massive build. Broad-shouldered, solid as a mountain, he wore heavy armor made of a mystical stone threaded with luminous veins. His face was marked by countless battles. His brown eyes betrayed no superfluous emotion.
His name was Bram Kharadon.
The living rampart.
Where lines broke, he held. Where armies fell, he advanced.
Two other men stood slightly further back.
The first, lean, with a sharp gaze, wore light armor in golden hues. His gestures were precise, measured. Every word he spoke seemed to have been weighed long before it was said.
Aethron Pyresang.
Supreme strategist. Architect of conquests. For him, a war was not won on the battlefield — but long before it began.
Beside him, a man of discreet bearing, almost invisible. His smile was subtle. His eyes always moving. His dark armor seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Kael Vireombre.
Master of ambushes, deception, and invisible strikes. By the time one realized he was there… it was already too late.
Ignivar observed the horizon in silence.
Then he spoke.
« This part of the universe is ours. »
His voice was calm. Steady.
« But elsewhere… defeat has left its marks. »
Aethron crossed his hands behind his back.
« The Tenryūjin have regained the advantage on several fronts. Their counter-offensive is methodical. »
He paused.
« The consequences will be felt for centuries. »
Sabelle joined her hands.
« Rumors are circulating. »
Her voice was soft, but everyone listened carefully.
« People speak of negotiations. Of peace talks at the borders of Ormyr. »
A silence followed those words.
Bram was the first to react.
A brief breath. Almost a laugh.
« Peace. »
He pronounced the word as if it were foreign to his mouth.
« After a thousand years of war… they want to talk. »
His gaze hardened.
« I don't trust them. »
Kael offered a slight smile.
« Peace is simply war conducted by other means. »
He shrugged slightly.
« With words. Promises. Smiles. »
A pause.
« But war nonetheless. »
Aethron intervened, his voice cold and precise as a blade.
« Whether we want it or not, the Ormyr negotiations will have repercussions. If they succeed… some of our conquered territories could be called into question. »
He raised his eyes toward the general.
« We must be ready to defend what we have taken. Politically. And militarily. »
Sabelle spoke again.
« The Primordial Sun watches over us. »
Her voice carried something deeper than simple religious conviction. Something ancient.
« Perhaps it has decided that this war has lasted long enough. »
Bram grunted.
« The Primordial Sun has never stopped a war. Swords do that. »
Sabelle did not answer.
She simply looked at him for a moment.
Then turned her eyes back toward the horizon.
Ignivar remained silent.
He listened to his commanders without intervening. That was his way of leading — let them speak, observe, understand.
But inwardly, he had already formed his opinion.
He had seen too many worlds burn to still believe in the absolute glory of conquest. He had walked across lands reduced to ashes. He had watched entire civilizations disappear beneath the flames of war.
Peace…
He supported it.
Not out of weakness. Not out of fear.
But because he understood, with a lucidity that few warriors were willing to accept, that some victories cost more than they were worth.
He said none of this aloud.
His loyalty belonged to the army. Not to his opinions.
Lower in the bastion, in the inner courtyards, a group of ordinary soldiers had gathered around an improvised campfire. They ate. Talked. Laughed sometimes — that particular laugh of soldiers, a mixture of lightness and exhaustion.
One of them, a young warrior whose features were still too smooth for a battlefield, set down his cup.
« Is it true, what they're saying? »
The others looked at him.
« The negotiations. The possibility of peace. »
A silence settled around the fire.
An older soldier, his face hollowed by years of war, shrugged.
« They're just rumors. »
« But what if it's true? » the young one insisted.
No one answered immediately.
Then a woman sitting slightly apart murmured simply:
« I would go home. »
Her words fell into the silence like a stone into still water.
The young soldier looked at her.
« What does it look like… peace? »
No one answered.
Some stared into the fire.
Others looked at the sky.
The older soldier finally spoke, his voice low and heavy.
« I don't remember anymore. »
He took a long drink.
« It's been too long. »
The fire crackled softly.
Above them, the planet's two moons shone in silence — one blue, the other violet — indifferent to the questions of the men living beneath their light.
Later that night, a patrol left the bastion.
Twelve elite soldiers. Equipped. Trained. Perfectly coordinated.
They left the planet flying, rising into the immensity of the solar system. A routine patrol. Their itinerary was simple. Known. Repeated dozens of times without incident.
No one watched them leave.
No one had reason to.
In the bastion, the night passed normally.
Guards completed their rounds. Soldiers slept. Fires went out one by one.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing alarming.
The next morning, no one immediately noticed their absence.
Patrols sometimes took time.
It was not unusual.
So they waited.
The hours passed.
It was only toward the middle of the day that someone raised their eyes to the sky.
And saw something.
A silhouette.
In the atmosphere.
It was falling more than flying — an erratic, uncontrolled descent, like a being that had lost all control of its own body.
A soldier cried out.
Then another.