Two portals tore open the blank white of Elenarda like wounds made of light.
First came the Priestesses of Elune—a hundred silent footfalls, moon-bright eyes—and then the Blood Elf Knights, a thousand disciplined strides that made the marble platform feel suddenly too small. From the second portal poured the Khainite Assassins, one hundred shadows wearing the shape of people, followed by warlocks whose presence tasted like scorched air and old bargains.
The castle-world reacted.
Stone on one side of the courtyard darkened as though ink seeped into marble. The other side brightened, veins of pale gold crawling along the floor like sunlight learning the path again. Light and shadow didn't simply coexist—they pressed against each other, testing.
Outside, the arrivals separated instinctively, brightness drifting toward brightness, darkness clustering with darkness. No one gave an order. The Force inside them did it for them.
Inside the main hall, four figures faced Zelon across the polished floor—two lit from within, two draped in threat.
Galadriel stood like a white tower in winter—calm, ancient, carrying grief without letting it bend her spine. Beside her, Tyrande Whisperwind was gentleness sharpened into purpose, the kind of warmth that stood between the wounded and the blade.
Opposite them, Jahama watched from behind a skull mask, still as a held breath, while Valeera Sanguinar smiled like a secret and let her twin green daggers hover just enough to be noticed.
The air thickened. Power answered power. The hall trembled as light and dark slammed against each other without a single strike thrown.
Then Horus inhaled.
Not loudly—no roar, no command—just a quiet breath. But the pressure eased as if the world itself remembered who owned this space. The clash didn't vanish; it softened, forced into a narrow channel where it could not break the room.
Zelon rose from his throne.
To most eyes, he was simply a boy—white hair, small frame, posture too steady to be childlike. In the Force he felt… wrong. Too quiet. Like a sealed box pretending to be empty.
"Enough," Zelon said, voice carrying without effort. "None of you are enemies here."
The tension loosened by degrees. Valeera's daggers lowered a fraction. Tyrande's shoulders unclenched. Galadriel's gaze remained steady, but the storm behind it eased.
"I am Zelon Virqaza," he continued, stepping down from the dais. "You were summoned because I need you."
He tapped his datapad, and a holo-starchart unfolded above his palm: the spiral of a galaxy, lanes of hyperspace like veins of light.
"This world is not yours. Technology rules the sky. A Republic holds dominion over most of the galaxy." His fingers shifted the holo, highlighting the Outer Rim. "And everywhere—everywhere—moves a power called the Force."
To demonstrate, Zelon lifted broken stones from the hall's cracked corner. They floated, turned, aligned into a neat orbit around his head like a crown made of ruin.
Tyrande's eyes narrowed. She reached outward—not for mana, which wasn't there—but for the strange current she'd felt since arriving. It answered like deep water.
When her senses brushed Zelon, she found an energy unlike mana—denser, purer, almost… divine. But when her awareness touched Horus, it was like falling into an ocean so vast her mind instinctively pulled back.
"Incredible," she whispered before she meant to.
Zelon's gaze flicked toward Horus as if acknowledging the silent compliment. "As you have sensed, this is Horus, spirit of the Holy Hearthtree."
Horus stepped forward, bowing with formal grace. "Welcome to Elenarda."
Zelon turned back to them. "I will rise to power in this galaxy. Not with darkness alone. Not with light alone. I will use both—properly."
He faced Tyrande first. "High Priestess. I need healers—field triage, recovery halls, and strength that keeps an army standing after the first loss. Your sisters will build the body of this nation."
Then he nodded to Galadriel. "Lady Galadriel. You will shape the mind. Doctrine. Training. New techniques that merge your wisdom with the Force. Know this: Elrond and Celebrimbor are already here."
For the first time, Galadriel's expression softened. "Then I am not… alone."
Zelon's gaze shifted to the shadowed pair. "Jahama. You will lead your Khainites. You will remove obstacles that armies cannot. Quietly."
"Killing is what I do best," Jahama said, voice flat as a blade's edge. "Point me."
"And Valeera," Zelon said, "you will become my shadow hunter. Your rogues will move where banners cannot. You will gather truth, break threats before they take shape, and protect what must not fall."
Valeera's grin returned—small, sharp. "Sounds fun."
Zelon returned to his throne, fingers tapping the armrest like a metronome. "You will all be escorted to the restored Jedi Academy. There, you will learn the Force properly and adapt. In one month, I return to Northor. War will begin."
Outside the castle, elven attendants arrived—silent, disciplined—ready to guide the new arrivals to their stations.
Zelon watched them go, expression unreadable.
"Let them see holy knights leading the charge," he murmured, eyes half-lidded. "Their light will conceal the shadows that build my empire."