[Orton’s POV]

  “We are gathered here today to honor the life of Maxwell von Zankwarn,” the celebrant’s voice carried through the chapel. “An exceptional commander, who gave his life in the pursuit of his soldiers’ safety… and for the freedom of the Republic.”

  Orton kept his gaze lowered, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His eyes no longer wept, but the redness was still there, born of grief and something darker. Shame. Anger. Hatred.

  The chapel was small, modest by the standards of the core worlds, yet beautiful in its simplicity. Built entirely from pale white stone quarried on this colonial planet. The seats were carved from the local wood, a rarity in the galaxy where natural forests were scarce and guarded. The faint scent of fresh timber lingered in the air.

  Behind Orton, the officers of the Republic stood in rigid silence. Their uniforms gleamed, pressed to perfection, but their eyes betrayed sleepless nights and unspoken rage. They were not only mourning a commander, they were mourning the first true defeat the Republic had suffered in years. To make it worse, it had cost them Maxwell.

  At the center of the altar lay the coffin. Draped in the blue-and-gold banner of the Republic of Enceladus, candles flanked it. Resting atop the flag was a ceremonial sabre. It gleamed like a final salute, a weapon that would never again leave its scabbard.

  Orton’s jaw tightened. His mind would not quiet. 'I should never have sent them. I should have taken the enemy more seriously.'

  The thought circled in his head like a vulture, gnawing at him, refusing to let go. He could still see Maxwell’s mecha torn apart by fire, the copper titan reduced to wreckage. He could still hear the silence on the comms when his voice cut out.

  Orton closed his eyes, not in prayer, but in a vow. 'Never again. I will not underestimate them again. I will not lose another commander.'

  His fists clenched, his nails biting into the skin of his palms. 'I will erase them from the galaxy.'

  As the celebrant’s voice droned on, speaking of sacrifice and honor, Orton’s thoughts were already elsewhere. It was on the battlefield, on the vengeance he would carve into that planet.

  Orton’s chest tightened. It wasn’t only grief that consumed him, nor the simmering hatred that coiled in his veins. It was guilt. A guilt so sharp it gnawed at him, whispering that Maxwell’s death was his mistake, his fault.

  His gaze drifted across the chapel and fell upon Maxwell’s mother. Her hair, silvered with age, glimmered beneath the sunlight that pierced the narrow windows. Though her eyes were swollen from tears, she held her head high. Around her, the colonists murmured prayers.

  “Today we say farewell not only to a hero,” the celebrant intoned, “but also to a man of flesh and blood. One who, in the end, gave all of himself so that others might live.”

  Silence fell.

  Two soldiers stepped forward, their boots striking the floor. Each bore a flag, one flag of the Republic’s command and another of the mecha attack squadron. The two officers raised the flags above the Republic’s flag, marking that above all, he was a proud officer.

  Orton clenched his jaw until it ached, then raised his hand in salute. The motion was mirrored by the officers and soldiers behind him, a forest of disciplined gestures.

  When the ceremony ended, the line of mourners formed. One by one, each person stepped forward to offer condolences to the grieving parents. Orton stood silently behind President Mordred, his shoulders squared, his expression unreadable.

  The president’s presence was unusual. Mordred rarely attended funerals, but for a commander of Maxwell’s stature, fallen in the line of duty, in an act of heroism, protocol demanded his attention.

  “My condolences,” Mordred said softly, his voice stripped of its usual commanding timbre. He embraced the Zankwarns briefly before stepping aside.

  Then it was Orton’s turn.

  He approached slowly, his heart heavy. Maxwell’s mother could barely meet his gaze. Her hands trembled as he took them into his own, fragile and frail against the roughness of his gloves. Yet when she finally lifted her tear-filled eyes to him, her voice broke like shards of glass.

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  “He spoke of you often, Admiral…” she whispered, her words fragile, trembling. “He said you were someone he could trust with his life.”

  Orton’s stomach twisted violently. The words cut deeper than any blade. There was no answer that would not sound empty, no comfort he could give that would not be a lie. So he said nothing. He only bowed his head, tightening his grip on her hands, perhaps more than he intended.

  Then his gaze shifted to Maxwell’s father. The man’s face was carved from stone, his grief buried beneath a mask of resolve. His eyes were bloodshot, but behind them burned something colder, harder.

  “I hope my son’s death was not in vain, Admiral,” the man said, his voice low, steady, unyielding.

  Orton swallowed hard, his throat dry as ash. He forced his composure. “He was a hero of the Republic. His sacrifice will be remembered.”

  The words rang hollow in his own ears, empty protocol spoken to mask the truth. But they were all he could give.

  Outside the chapel, the soldiers of the Republic lined in perfect formation, rifles raised to the sky. The air was heavy, still. Then, the first volley thundered. Three shots rang out in unison, echoing across the white stone and the fields beyond.

  Orton closed his eyes. Each shot was a hammer against his chest, each echo a reminder of failure and loss. When the final shot faded into silence, he exhaled slowly, as though releasing a weight he had carried.

  At his side, Nathanael walked in silence, his expression stern but shadowed by concern. His commander’s fury was palpable, but Nathanael said nothing. He had seen Orton’s eyes at the funeral, had seen the guilt and rage boiling beneath the surface.

  Orton’s mind, however, was still reliving those moments. He could see it clearly. The titan with writhing tentacles, carving through cruisers like paper, entire squadrons reduced to drifting debris. He remembered the screams of pilots cut short, the fire, the chaos. The humiliation.

  Ahead, President Mordred moved briskly away from the cemetery, his security detail forming a protective ring around him. Orton quickened his pace, leaving the mourners behind until only Nathanael followed close enough to hear his words.

  “I’m ready to return,” Orton said at last, his voice low, hard. “I’ll crush them. I’ll bring down the overwhelming might of the Republic upon their world. With General Alan at my side, we can seize that planet in a single day.” His words carried the weight of a vow, a promise forged in grief and rage.

  Mordred stopped, turning sharply to face him. His expression was grave, his voice measured. “Keep that promise for another time, Admiral.”

  Orton bristled. “But, sir—”

  “Let them continue their game of pretending to be a Great House,” Mordred interrupted, his tone cold but calm. “Their technology surprised us, yes. They proved they won’t be easily broken by alliances or brute force. But they are not our priority. Not yet. They’ll still be there when we return.”

  Orton’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Why?” he demanded. “What could possibly be more critical than bringing justice to the Republic?”

  Mordred’s eyes narrowed. His voice dropped to a whisper, low enough that only Orton and Nathanael could hear over the movements of soldiers around them. “Have you read the latest intelligence report?”

  “The one about the Militarists?” Orton asked cautiously.

  “No,” Mordred replied, his tone sharpening. “The Empire. They’re moving on the Fantasia System.”

  Orton frowned. “Yes, I saw the announcement. They claim they’re securing the Core routes, bottlenecking the Orks from reaching Sol. But why should we care?”

  “That’s their lie,” Mordred said, his voice edged with disdain. “It’s what they want the population, and the Houses, to believe. Protection and blocking the Orks is useful, yes, but it’s not their true goal.”

  Orton’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is?”

  Mordred leaned closer, his words carrying the weight of conspiracy. “For the first time, a Unique Crystal was detected in-system. On Fantasia-3.”

  Orton’s breath caught. His mind reeled as the implications struck.

  Mordred’s expression hardened. “Not just any crystal. A Silver Crystal. The first since the Emperor claimed his own.”

  The words hung in the air. Even Nathanael’s composure faltered, his eyes widening.

  “A silver crystal…” Orton repeated, his voice hushed. The sheer rarity, the power it represented.

  It could be the shift in the balance. A crystal like that would only lose to the Golden Crystal, which was under the Yorks’ control. However, depending on who wielded it, not even the Golden Ranger would be a match.

  “Every Great House is dispatching scouting teams,” Mordred continued, his tone cold and calculating. “But we will go further. We will establish a permanent foothold. A base on Fantasia-3. While they try to be quiet and careful, we’re going to kick the door down and get as far ahead as we can.”

  Orton’s heart pounded. His thirst for vengeance still burned, but now it was tempered by something else.

  Mordred’s words echoed in his mind. The first silver crystal since the Emperor’s.

  'I won't let anyone else have it!'

  Orton felt the fire of grief sharpening into something new. Purpose.