The Pale Crest's leader raged on Crestspire, dreaming of vengeance, but Edgehold's defenders felt the gut punch first: the First Fleet was gone. They'd been holed up underground, betting Jarek's Steelborn were still looming overhead, when the Ribs had already slipped away to shred their reinforcements. "Who's even up there, then?" a Pale Crest grunt muttered, staring at the bunker ceiling.
A fresh signal pinged Jarek's fleet:
"Invaders, you've ignited the Pale Crest's fury. Our leader will rain divine wrath on your empire—eternal torment awaits."
The Pale Crest loved their drama. They styled themselves heirs to the Star League, their boss a half-god mouthpiece for some long-dead Emperor. Divine wrath, they called it. Jarek's Steelborn didn't buy it—no gods, no ghosts, just steel and fire. If the Pale Crest wanted a fight, they'd get one until they broke.
The fleet's first clash had cost Jarek little—twenty ships scrapped, forty banged up but patched by Living Steel. Now, with over seven hundred ships, he turned the screws on Edgehold. The goal: take it, hard and fast. Orbital barrages kicked off round two, softening the rock, then the Ribs dropped—fifty million Steelborn, hauled by ships carrying thirty thousand to a hundred fifty thousand each.
Edgehold's name fit now. The Pale Crest called it Karr-Vor, some old tongue for "endless suffering," and it was living up to it. The defenders—billions strong—had called for help from other worlds, but morale was ash. The First Fleet's wipeout hit hard, and wave after wave of bombs left them rattled. They didn't run, though—not like their spacer kin. No ships, no escape. They dug in, stubborn as stone.
The Pale Crest split their kind two ways: pale-trunked elites ran the show, dark-trunked grunts held the line. Edgehold's garrison was all dark-trunks—Black Crests, cannon fodder from across their system. Tougher than the fleet's cowards, they'd fight to the end. Jarek didn't mind. More time, same result.
The Steelborn landed heavy—fifty million elites, each packing top-tier gear. Pulse Rifles led the charge, shredding matter to atoms. Tanks rolled in, drones buzzed overhead, and for the tunnel rats, the Ribs brought neutron bombs—small, nasty, with five-kilometer kill zones. Toss one down a shaft, and it was over. Edgehold was hell for the Pale Crest, not Jarek's crew.
Black Crests died by the thousands daily, tunnels collapsing under neutron blasts. Above, Jarek's ships locked the sky—Pale Crest reinforcements, thousands strong, slammed into the blockade and bled out. Every push cost them hulls, chewed up by Steelborn speed and firepower. "What are these ships? Ours can't touch 'em," a Pale Crest captain spat.
"Doesn't matter—numbers'll drown 'em," another growled.
That was their crutch: home turf, endless shipyards. They couldn't match the Reaver's old glory, but they churned out small fry fast. Quantity over quality—let the Black Crests stall, buy time for the swarm. Jarek watched the holo-feed, cold as steel. Edgehold was a grinder, and he'd keep feeding it until the Pale Crest cracked.