Chapter 1: Omens at Vega Outpost

Behind all that grandeur, chaos simmers. Out in the silent stretches beyond the Milky Way—yeah, out there—fierce warriors wait, coiled and ready, like a knife’s edge pressed against skin.

Out in those cold stretches, the emptiness hums with a tension you can practically taste. Even the stars seem to hold their breath, waiting for the universe to snap. You can picture it: battle-hardened soldiers, eyes like shards of glass, hands always near their sidearms, itching for the signal to go. The whole universe feels like it’s teetering—right on the edge of a storm.

The Star Sage stands over a holographic star map, stepping through a nine-tile field of hard-light panels—a kind of astral array—and gazes upward, reading signs of unrest in the star lanes. He shakes his head and sighs, a shadow flickering in his eyes. His student asks, “Professor, what’s on your mind?”

As the blue-white glow of the map flickers across his face, the Star Sage’s shoulders seem heavier than usual. He studies the shifting constellations as if they’re whispering secrets only he can hear. The tent’s quiet—too quiet—except for the soft hum of the projectors and the distant thrum of engines outside the outpost. The student, young and eager, stands straight, trying not to fidget, concern etched into his brow.

“A great event is about to rock the universe. If, in the future, you’re not here with me on Vega Outpost, you need to do some real soul-searching—don’t let ambition fog your calls. Don’t let ambition cloud your judgment.”

He speaks slowly, each word dropping like a stone into still water. What now? The apprentice shifts his weight, thrown by the gravity in the Sage’s voice. The tent suddenly feels colder—a draft lifts the map’s corner, a chill sneaking in from the void outside.

“Why say such heavy things, Professor? I’ve run the forecasts—your life expectancy’s long. You’ll be with us for ages.” He laughs, trying to tease, but it comes out nervous.

The apprentice tries to lighten the mood, a wry smile tugging at his lips, but his voice wavers. He’s used to the Sage’s riddles, but tonight they cut deeper—but tonight they cut deeper—settling like a chill in his gut.

The Star Sage smiles, gathering himself. “Fate can flip in a heartbeat; one choice can change everything. Look at the sky—the Zephyr Star in the east is turning red, and what we call the virtual band—the in-between—is stretching faster. Soon, a fierce storm of sickness will sweep through, all because of unchecked greed for expansion. Blame this messy world; divine reckoning is coming.”

He pauses. His eyes fix on a distant point only he can see, as if the universe is eavesdropping. The air in the tent thickens with a sense of impending doom. The Sage’s fingers dance over the edge of the map, tracing lines that seem to connect fate and chaos. His words hang in the air, heavy with warning.

“Uh, Professor—where do we even hide?”

The apprentice’s voice is small, almost childlike, the bravado from before gone. He glances nervously at the tent flap, the canvas snapping as cold air seeps in, half-expecting the storm to burst in at any moment.

“I’ve told you before, it all starts in the mind. Soon, I’ll enter deep meditation—maybe I can ride the cosmic wind—the Higgs gust, if it comes—to our favor. Go wait outside—I expect a visitor soon…”

The Sage’s tone is gentle but firm, the kind of voice that brooks no argument. He closes his eyes for a moment, centering himself, and the student, sensing the conversation is over, bows his head and quietly slips out. Outside, the Vega night is endless and cold—the stars sharp as ice; the air bites.

Right then, a starship from Ironridge arrives. The Governor of Ironridge, flanked by his honor guard, heads straight for the Star Sage’s command tent on Vega Outpost. The apprentice bows, lifts the tent flap, and the Governor sees the Star Sage seated cross-legged, serene atop a floating platform. Suddenly, a native night-bird locals call a crow—rare, from the Andromeda wilds—flutters in, breaking the silence. The Star Sage stirs from his trance, back turned, yet somehow aware. The crow’s intrusion is an omen, hanging in the air for a heartbeat.

The tent fills with the crisp scent of ozone as the Governor enters, boots crunching on the metallic floor. The honor guard stays just outside, the hum of their sidearms a low warning. The crow’s wings brush the canvas, feathers scattering a faint, eerie shadow across the Sage’s back. The Governor’s breath catches, the sense of ceremony broken by the wild bird—to him, a sign.

“Governor—what brings you here?”

Though the Governor wields great power, he holds deep respect for the famous sage. Now, with war looming and a need for genius, he’s even more deferential. He pauses—“Sir, you never seem to sleep—and you’re still calm. I need your counsel. My mind’s troubled.”

He bows his head slightly, the gesture awkward in his heavy uniform, but genuine. “I’m not great at asking for help,” he admits, his voice tight. He glances around, as if the tent might swallow his secrets whole.

The Star Sage turns, holding a scepter-like wand tipped with crystal. His beard is white, but his eyes are sharp. “Governor, don’t worry. How about some coffee first? Mason, pour our guest a cup.”

The Sage’s smile is warm, almost fatherly, and the offer of coffee is as American as it gets—hospitality, even at the edge of the galaxy. He gestures to a battered old thermos on a side table, its sticker half-peeled, a relic from a thousand cold nights spent watching the stars. The staff glints in the low light, a symbol of knowledge and command.

The apprentice brings a thermos and mugs, climbing the steps. The Star Sage and the Governor sit across from each other on the floating deck above Vega Outpost, gazing out at the void, like titans weighing the fate of the stars. Though their tech could shift worlds, in this moment, they’re just two men—just two guys on a porch, basically.

The apprentice sets the mugs down with a soft clink, steam curling into the night. The silence between the men is thick, but companionable—just two leaders, sharing a rare moment of peace before the storm. In the distance, the outpost’s lights blink like beacons, swallowed by the endless dark.

“Governor, how’s the coffee?”

He sighs, “Bitter at first, then smooth—like this job, not easy to hold onto. The Outer Corridor stretches for light-years, poor in resources, isn’t a gold mine, but a choke point—the kind soldiers die for. Now the Stratton Empire’s eyeing it, ready to rip it from my grasp. It’s unbearable.”

The Governor swirls the mug, watching the dark liquid catch the starlight. His words are heavy, the bitterness of the coffee a perfect match for the burden he carries. He stares into the void, as if searching for answers in the black.

“Is this about defending the outpost?”

He looks up, hope flickering in his eyes, hand tightening around the mug. The question is simple, but the weight behind it is enormous. The air between them crackles with anticipation.

“Exactly. Your reputation is legendary. I’m hoping you’ve got a way we can ride this out.”

The Governor leans forward, elbows on knees, desperation plain on his face. He’s used to giving orders, but tonight, he’s just a man asking for a lifeline.

The Star Sage strokes his beard, sips his coffee, and says, “Conflict in the galaxy is nothing new. This outpost won’t escape it. The Stratton Empire isn’t what it used to be. Now their sights are set on other clusters. Even if you don’t provoke them, they’ll come for you. Your planet’s right in their path—it’ll be damn hard to dodge what’s coming.”

He speaks with the calm certainty of someone who’s seen too many wars, gaze never leaving the swirling stars. The words land with a finality that makes the Governor’s hands tremble.

The Governor’s hand shakes, spilling his coffee. “Please, you must have a way to pull off a win. Help my people.”

He’s practically begging. The Star Sage can’t refuse. “The Stratton Empire’s about to change hands. The old commander’s retiring, becoming a figurehead. His eldest son’s just taken over—ambitious, arrogant, itching to conquer the Outer Reaches. But he’s stubborn, reckless, ignores advice. That kind of hubris cracks empires.”

The Governor’s voice cracks, beads of coffee trembling on his knuckles. The pressure of leadership is visible in every line of his face. He clutches his mug, knuckles white, as if it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality. The Sage’s words offer a sliver of hope, but the risk is clear.