The night was a black shroud, pulled tight over the world of Elara. No moons broke the cloud-cover; the only light came from the great fire pit at the heart of the Stone Circle. Around it, figures moved in a slow, silent dance. They were tall, unnaturally slender, their skin the color of bone under the bruised sky. Their ears, elongated and pointed, twitched at the crackle of the flames. They were the Lumin, the pale people of the twilight forests, and their faces were masks of hollow-cheeked solemnity.

Within their circle, closer to the fire’s hungry heat, stood the true power. Five women, robed in linen so white it seemed to bleed light into the darkness. They were the Silent Sisters, seers of the Lumin, and their mouths were moving in a low, rhythmic chant. The language was old, older than the stones, a series of guttural clicks and soft, sighing vowels that did not belong to any human tongue. The firelight cast their shadows, giant and wavering, against the ancient monoliths.

One of them, the eldest, her white hair streaming from beneath her hood like a spectral waterfall, suddenly went rigid. Her chanting ceased. Her sisters did not stop, but their eyes slid toward her, wide with apprehension.

"A vision," the elder priestess breathed, her voice a dry rustle against the backdrop of chant and fire. She swayed, her hands coming up as if to grasp something in the air. "I see… a woman. She stands upon a spire of black glass, under a sun I do not know. Upon her breast, a sigil… the triple helix of House Freides. A coreworld house."

A collective shudder went through the circling Lumin. A coreworlder here, in a vision? It was an omen of terrible scale.

The priestess’s voice gained strength, edged with terror. "And behind her… armies. Not of polished steel and proud banners. Ragged hordes. The scarred and the hungry. The outerworld legions, rallying to her call. She raises a sword, and they—"

The sound that cut her off was not of this world. It was a war horn, but one born of a screaming engine and shredded metal, blasting across the sacred clearing. It drowned the chant, shattered the silence, and brought the ritual to a dead stop.

From the inky treeline, shapes resolved. Not Lumin. These were figures encased in sleek, matte-black armor, moving with a …