Jarek's vanguard punched through to Edgehold's orbit, a steel storm hanging over the Pale Crest's outermost rock. The Ribs didn't rush to land—boots on dirt could wait. Instead, they unleashed hell from above, orbital barrages raining down like a blacksmith's hammer.
The Steelborn ships bristled with top-shelf firepower—Pulse Cannons, laser grids, particle lances, the works. Edgehold's force shields buckled fast, popping like cheap glass under the onslaught. From the bays, arc-wing fighters and bombers swarmed out, a buzzing cloud that shredded what was left of the Pale Crest's air game. Ground bases burned, arsenals flattened, reserve ships slagged before they could lift off. Fire and ruin painted the planet red.
The Ribs moved like a single mind—orders from the hub wired straight to every gun, every thruster. No delays, no fumbles. Ascension's edge turned chaos into clockwork, and the Pale Crest couldn't keep up. Their counterstrikes fizzled—too slow, too weak.
"Why's the Void force sleeping? Edgehold's crumbling—they'll land any second! Emergency backup, now!" a Pale Crest comm screeched.
"Damn cowards—too scared for a fair fight, so they sneak in. Disgraceful!"
"Need help fast. Enemy's got a thousand—no, two thousand ships. We're done out here."
One commander fudged the numbers, doubling Jarek's fleet on the report. A thousand ships smashing through from the system's edge to Edgehold in three months—too quick, too embarrassing. He'd claim a slip, blame nerves. In Pale Crest culture, a flub like that might slide. Truth was, their fringe troops—two hundred ships, plus ground guns—should've held longer. Instead, they folded.
Back at the Void rift, the Pale Crest's main fleet split. Half stayed to guard the gate, half burned for Edgehold. "No new rifts, no blips at the portal. Where'd they spawn from?" a rift officer barked.
"Raiders'll pay—our wrath's coming."
"Signal 'em—surrender now, or our first fleet'll wipe 'em out at Edgehold."
"They'll bow, or we'll torch their whole system. Pale Crest stands tall!"
Same old bravado. Even with Edgehold smoking, they strutted like winners. Their logic? The sneak attack caught them napping, but now the big guns were rolling—eight hundred ships from the rift, five hundred more from other worlds. Half their navy, ready to trap Jarek's thousand. "They'll be boxed in," an officer crowed. "Our name'll echo across the stars."
They pictured it: a historic win, their first real scalp since the empire's scrappy start. Medals, songs, the works. Victory was close—they could taste it.
Too bad Jarek wasn't playing their game. "Turn and hit 'em," he ordered, voice cold. "Carbine run."
The Steelborn fleet pivoted, a thousand ships wheeling like a blade. The Pale Crest thought they'd cornered a rat. They didn't see the jaws closing.