The surface of Xylos-9 was a graveyard of sleeping gods. Beneath Ishtar's ship, the Unbowed, dozens of stone Titans—golems the size of mountains—stood locked in millennia-old silence. A silent ballet of slow, almost imperceptible movements from those creatures, waiting to awaken.
On the guild channel, communication flowed as a calm stream of data. Only four other voices—but they were worth a hundred.
"Jett, containment status?" Ishtar's voice was low, a counterpoint to the symphony of soft alerts filling the cockpit.
"The Titan is secured. We're beginning core extraction, Ishy," came the reply, punctuated by the hum of mining lasers. "Seismic activity is quiet. Too quiet."
"Hold the perimeter," she ordered. In space, Enlil's voice followed, smooth and distant. "Two fleet signatures jumping in the neighboring system, Ishy. Looks like Nim's dogs."
"Let them come," Ishtar murmured, her eyes dancing across the tactical readouts. "They'll find nothing but our dust."
It was the arrogance of competence. The Five were the only ones who could "hunt" Titans with a team that small, harvesting one of the rarest metals in the game. They were an anomaly. And Ishtar was their center of gravity.
Then a red alarm tore through the calm. It wasn't an attack. It was internal.
< ALERT: Fleet protocol violation. Unauthorized asset transfer initiated. >
Ishtar frowned. "Command, cancel transfer. Omega code—"
< ALERT: Leader security code overridden. Asset transfer confirmed. Destination: Apex Guild. >
The tactical map flared hostile red. The cargo hold—several Titan cores, three thousand hours of mining, the value of a capital ship—was being ejected in containers tagged for Apex.
"Ishtar, what did you do?!" Jett's voice came from the surface, a scream of panic and betrayal.
"I didn't do this!" she snapped, her hands flying over the console. "We've been hacked!"
"The access keys… the leader code… only you had them," another teammate said, her voice trembling.
The final blow came from Enlil, carrying a soft, devastating pain. "Ishy… why? I— we trusted you."
The system, relentless, delivered the sentence:
< Guild "The Five" dissolved. Remaining assets of leader ISHTAR confiscated. Security status altered. >
The voices fell silent. The red lights became the only truth. Outside, the Apex fleet jumped into the system—not to fight, but to collect the wreckage of a life.
Helen tore the neuro-connector from the back of her neck, the silence of the apartment slamming into her like a solid wall. The ringing in her ears was the ghost echo of alarms. She stayed there in the immersion pod, cold sweat running down her spine. The knot in her stomach was made of humiliation and confusion.
She heard the front door open. Alexandre.
She climbed out of the pod, her body heavy. He was in the living room, running his hands through his hair, an ocean of conflicting emotions on his face.
"Alexandre, we need to talk about what happened." Her voice was steady, controlled. Ishtar's voice.
"Helen, I can't," he said, with the same voice Enlil had used in the game, not meeting her eyes. "I can't do this right now. It's too much." He paced the room, restless as wind. "It's not just about the game. It's about… everything. You became… cold. Distant. Obsessed."
"I was building our future," she replied, her voice dangerously low.
"You were building your guild," he shot back, finally looking at her. The hurt in his eyes seemed so real. "I felt like just another one of your generals. I suffered too, you know?"
Helen felt something cold settle in her chest. The dissolution of responsibility. It was an art he had perfected.
They went to bed, each in a separate room, an elephant standing in the apartment. She woke to Alexandre opening the door of the room she was sleeping in. His first words were not good morning, nor how are you?
"Helen, I need space," he said, his voice low, without the anger from the day before. "Space to breathe. I think it's best if you… pack your things and go. At least for now."
"Go where? This is my home," she said. The sentence was a fact, not a plea. She looked around—at the walls she had sanded herself, the floor she had installed, the lighting system she had designed and assembled with her own hands during the crisis, when hiring anyone was an unthinkable luxury.
He looked away. "The house belongs to my family, Helen." The blow wasn't loud. It was the final dissolution of responsibility. He was hiding behind his family, making any argument impossible.
She nodded once. No shouting. No tears. A scorpion files pain away for later. "Alright."
She turned and walked toward their bedroom to pack a life into boxes. When she opened the door, she stopped.
A woman she had never seen before was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing one of her silk robes. She held a glass of water and looked at Helen without surprise.
Alexandre appeared behind Helen, his face pale. "Helen, this is—"
"Who is she?" Helen's voice was sharp.
"She's my cousin, Sally," he rushed to say. "She… she heard about what happened and came to support me. I was in a really bad place, and she's helping me… with the separation."
Helen looked at the woman. At the silk robe. At the casual intimacy with which she occupied her space. At the scent of a perfume that wasn't hers. A cousin. A cousin she had never met in five years. The lie was so transparent it was insulting.
But she didn't challenge it. Arguing wouldn't change the fact that her world had been stolen.
"Would you like some water?" Sally's voice was soft, almost sympathetic. "You look pale. Alex told me you'd be picking up a few things. He gets so overwhelmed by confrontation, poor thing."
The use of the nickname Alex. The false concern. Every word was poison.
Helen said nothing. She didn't give them the satisfaction of a reaction. She went into the closet, grabbed an empty box, and began folding her clothes with methodical precision. She didn't look at Sally. She didn't look at Alexandre when she passed him in the living room.
She walked out the front door carrying a single box in her arms, leaving behind a stolen throne and the shell of a life that was no longer hers. The war had not begun. But the first battle was over—and Helen had lost everything.