Jarek's Steelborn fleet loomed over Edgehold, a menacing shadow in orbit. They pounded the Pale Crest's outpost world with relentless barrages, turning the surface to ash. The Ribs didn't touch down—landing was a trap Jarek saved for later. Instead, they kept their ships aloft, nimble and untouchable. Mobility was their edge, and Jarek had no intention of bogging it down in the dirt. The Pale Crest would come running soon enough, and he'd hit them where they moved.
Three months into the campaign, the thousand-strong fleet had Edgehold's orbit locked tight—a steel web poised to snap shut. The Ribs had sized up the Pale Crest's tech from their wrecked ships. It was good, but not great. Jarek's force couldn't crack their entire empire yet, but this? This was a lesson they'd feel. The Pale Crest's rift garrison would rush back to defend their turf, and that's when the real play would begin.
Down on Edgehold, the defenders were in chaos. Orbital strikes had shredded their shields and bases, forcing them deep underground—hundreds of meters into bunkers and tunnels. They huddled there, betting on a ground fight if Jarek dared to land. Most didn't want it—dying for a lost rock wasn't their plan. They clung to a fragile hope: no landing, no loss.
Twenty days passed without a single boot hitting the soil, and their mood shifted. "They're scared to come down!" one crowed, voice echoing off the bunker walls.
"What, they think bombs'll finish us? Never seen a bunker, these hicks?" another sneered.
"Cowards. Our rift fleet's closing—they begged 'em to quit two days back," a third chimed in.
"Time to flex. We'll demand payback—make 'em squirm," someone added, grinning. That Pale Crest swagger never quit.
A message pinged Jarek's fleet, bold and brash:
"Invaders, our reinforcements are near. You're too gutless to take Edgehold. Here's our terms: hand over two planets for the damage you've done, and we'll let you crawl out of our system."
Jarek didn't blink. Same old bluff, same big mouth. He didn't bother replying—words were cheap, and the Steelborn hit with steel, not chatter. Taking Edgehold outright would be a slog, and he didn't need it yet. The real prize was the Pale Crest's relief force—their First Fleet. Cripple that, and the lesson would stick harder.
The Ribs' command hub buzzed with activity, syncing eight hundred ships in a heartbeat. The rest stayed behind, keeping Edgehold pinned with feints and blasts, while the bulk peeled off—straight for the incoming reinforcements. Three months of fighting hadn't dented Jarek's fleet much. Living Steel tech patched hulls mid-battle, keeping them tight and ready. Eight hundred Pale Crest ships were racing in to match them, but the Steelborn held the cards.
Jarek's ships were better—faster, tougher, armed to the teeth with Pulse Cannons and beyond. The Ribs had cracked the Pale Crest's tech months back, mapping every weak seam. Ship-to-ship, the enemy didn't stand a chance. Tactics sealed it—mobile warfare, striking where they blinked. The Pale Crest never saw it coming.
The First Fleet burned hard for Edgehold, itching to save their turf. Then Jarek's ambush hit—eight hundred ships slamming in from every angle. "Enemy attack!" their comms screamed, a dozen voices overlapping in panic.
"Here? They're supposed to be at Edgehold!" one shouted, disbelief cracking his tone.
Their intel was trash—they hadn't even spotted the split. The Steelborn struck like a blade storm, firepower slicing the Pale Crest fleet into chunks. Pulse blasts shredded hulls, splitting their eight hundred into panicked fragments. The First Fleet—supposedly elite—crumbled, a sandcastle under a wave.
Jarek watched the holo-feed, cold and steady. The Pale Crest talked big. Now they'd learn quiet.