Light years away, the Ele Dominion burned.
As their paranoia gave way to madness, the Centurion fleet descended into violence, lashing out against their invisible antagonist, a people who only sought connection.
On the outer reaches, once-bustling worlds had become ghost towns and necropolises, as the Ele either fled for their lives or faced death at the hands of those who claimed to seek knowledge. In the deserts of El-Finothol, dozens perished; amidst the once-gleaming spires of El-Duvar, hundreds more fell.
On the lodestone world of El-Gitrin, where some atmospheric quirk made the ground itself a magnet, Centurion 61 burrowed so deep seeking to silence the Metanation that magma pooled around its feet and the weight of the city above buried the wayward probe. Days later, it emerged once more having evolved tunnelling equipment, taking to the stars again as though nothing had changed.
Within the Rhyzomic Expanse, Centurion 47 wore its gauntlets down to polished stumps trying to breach the great tree’s branches and halt the voices coursing within. The next day it had grown back jackhammers in place of hands.
Above the transit moon El-Tus, two centurions warred against each other, each believing its counterpart to be the source of the persistent signal. Their battle atomised the ground below, but they never stopped.
And on El-Kera, residents and refugees alike could only watch as lines on a map inevitably converged. The great civilisation founded on community held its loved ones close and prayed that the storm would break.
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