Astashica: Eternal Starborn Dominion

The Plains of Leipira stretched out before Va'katl, a vast and open expanse that now bore the scars of war.

The ground trembled softly beneath the weight of machinery, as hundreds of warriors worked tirelessly, digging, fortifying, reinforcing. The trench system was taking shape, an elaborate network of defensive lines carved deep into the valley—barriers of earth and steel, meant to hold back the inevitable tide of war.

But even as the trenches grew, a heavy unease settled over Va'katl's forces.

The enemy was watching.

And something unnatural lingered in the sky.

The Shadow That Waits

Va'katl stood at the edge of the trench, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the horizon where Ixtiel's forces remained idle.

The enemy war camp stretched across the river delta, an ominous gathering of blackened banners and fortified staging grounds, their presence a looming shadow against the distant mountains.

For now, Ixtiel's forces remained at ease—but only on the surface.

From here, Va'katl could see their movements, the way smaller detachments drifted between command posts, exchanging silent orders, how the patrol formations subtly adjusted, reinforcing weak points, shifting like a tide waiting to rise.

And beyond them, beyond the standard soldiers, beyond the banners of war, stood something else.

A force his men whispered of in the dead of night.

The Shadow Legion.

The Soldiers Who Did Not Belong

Unlike Ixtiel's usual marauders, the Shadow Legion did not revel in chaos.

They did not laugh.

They did not boast.

They did not move without purpose.

They stood in perfect silence, their dark armor sleek and unmarked, their faces obscured by visors that reflected no light. Hover-platforms lined their encampment, each equipped with rotating energy blades, sleek and sharp, built for precision and death.

The troops within Va'katl's trenches spoke of them only in whispers, unwilling to say their name too loudly, as if invoking them would summon them closer.

"They're not marauders," one of his warriors muttered. "They're something else."

Another tightened his grip on his plasma rifle, his helmeted face turned toward the distant figures, watching. Waiting. "They hunt. Not for sport. Not for power. Just to kill."

Va'katl had heard the rumors. He had seen what they had left behind.

Marauders raided, plundered, tore through settlements with reckless abandon.

But the Shadow Legion did not leave chaos in their wake.

They left emptiness.

Precise. Calculated. Methodical.

A battlefield after a Shadow Legion attack did not look like a war zone.

It looked sterilized.

As if nothing had ever lived there at all.

The Sky That Warped

Va'katl's gaze drifted upward.

And then, he saw it.

A place where the air was wrong.

It was subtle at first, just a faint shimmer above the battlefield, where the clouds twisted unnaturally, bending around something unseen.

But the longer he stared, the more he realized—it wasn't the clouds that were moving.

It was space itself.

The air folded inward, like a ripple in a still pond, an anomaly of light and distortion, shifting in place as if the sky was being pulled at the edges by invisible hands.

Va'katl's fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of Khalzir, his senses alert.

No one else had seen it yet.

No one else was looking.

But he knew. This was not natural.

Something was coming.

And when it arrived, there would be no warning.

The Growing Fear

The warriors in the trenches felt the unease even if they couldn't see it.

They worked tirelessly, adjusting their energy turrets, reinforcing barricades, but their hands moved stiffly, their shoulders tense.

Whispers moved through the ranks.

"They're waiting for something."

"They could strike at any moment."

"What if we don't see them coming?"

Even his best commanders, hardened men who had fought for years, stood quiet, watching the distant enemy camp with a tension that hadn't existed before.

Va'katl turned to his second-in-command, Commander Rathok, who stood beside him, his arms resting over his plasma rifle.

"You feel it too," Va'katl said.

Rathok didn't answer immediately. He was a practical man, one who did not dwell on superstitions or fears. But today, even he looked uncertain.

"Ixtiel's army doesn't move like an army that's preparing to strike," Rathok muttered. "But they don't move like one that's standing down, either."

Va'katl nodded. That was the problem.

Ixtiel's forces were always being reinforced.

Every few hours, more of their numbers arrived, stepping off landing crafts from the river delta, disappearing into the shadows of the encampment.

There was no war cry, no sign of impatience, no reckless charges.

They simply grew stronger.

And Va'katl did not know what they were waiting for.

The Command to Hold

The wind shifted, carrying the distant scent of burning wood from a village far beyond the battlefield.

Va'katl inhaled deeply.

He could not afford to be shaken.

Not in front of his men.

"Hold your positions," he commanded, voice steady, unwavering. "Reinforce the southern trenches, increase patrol rotations along the outer perimeter. If they strike, we will not be caught unaware."

Rathok nodded, turning to relay the orders.

Va'katl remained at the edge of the trench, watching as the anomaly in the sky shimmered, bending the air around it.

He did not know if the Shadow Legion was watching it too.

But he knew that something was coming.

And when it arrived, Val'katl would be the first to bleed.