The outer edge of Crestfall was quiet—until it wasn't. A thousand Steelborn ships blinked into existence, Jarek's expeditionary force cutting through the void. This was his "diplomatic corps" for the Pale Crest Empire—loaded with guns and grit, a proper hello after their last stunt.
The Ribs had sized up the Pale Crest from that first scrap. Captured hulks gave up their tech secrets, and the verdict was clear: a thousand ships wouldn't topple their whole empire, but they'd take a planet easy. Enough to sting, maybe enough to make 'em think twice. If the Pale Crest still wanted to flex, Jarek's Steelborn would hit harder.
The fleet hit Crestfall's rim, and the Pale Crest didn't even twitch. Their eyes were glued to the Void rift, guns stacked to blast anything popping through. Superlight travel without it? Unheard of. Their fringe defenses were paper-thin, and Jarek wasn't here to play nice. They'd struck first last time—etiquette was off the table.
Crestfall had eleven planets, eight rocky ones in play. Jarek picked the outermost, Edgehold, for the opener—snag it, then pivot to smack the reinforcements they'd drag from the rift. The Ribs' math called it cleanest. "Go," he said, and the fleet surged.
A thousand ships roared in, shredding Pale Crest outposts and bases like they were tin cans. Laser arrays carved through steel, torpedoes punched holes, particle beams scorched, and Pulse Cannons turned whole stations to ash clouds. The Steelborn moved like a machine—orders from the hub hit every ship's core direct, no chatter, no slip-ups. Ascension's gift: perfect sync, down to the angle of a single gun. No flesh fleet could match it.
The Pale Crest reeled. "Enemy attack!" their comms screamed, over and over.
"They don't fight fair—sneak bastards! Don't they fear our wrath?"
"Where'd they come from? Nothing at the Void gate!"
"Rift force says zip—clueless over there."
"Call 'em in! We pull back, link up later."
"No prep, no fight. Fall back, ditch the line."
The raid gut-punched them. Jarek's ships outgunned and outran theirs—better tech, better moves. Pale Crest morale tanked fast. Bases on the fringe barely fired back—token shots, then they bolted, leaving gear and ships behind. This was their turf, numbers and ground on their side, but they ran like rookies. If they'd dug in, they could've slowed the Steelborn. Instead, Jarek's vanguard sliced to Edgehold's orbit in hours, a steel spear through butter.
Watching the Pale Crest scatter, Jarek muttered, "They don't just refuse to quit—they've got the guts to shoot back." Dry as dust, but the Ribs didn't laugh. They didn't need to. Edgehold loomed below, and the real fight was coming. The Pale Crest might be rattled, but they weren't done. Yet.