Lord of the Foresaken
Chapter 121: New Dominions Rising

Chapter 121: New Dominions Rising

The screams began at 0347 ship-time, echoing through the hull of the Bloodletter like the death cries of a wounded god. Lyralei bolted upright from her restless sleep, her mortal heart hammering against ribs that felt too fragile to contain such terror. The screams weren’t human—they carried harmonics that human vocal cords couldn’t produce, frequencies that made her teeth ache and her vision blur at the edges.

Reed was already moving, pulling on his uniform with practiced efficiency despite having been deep in sleep moments before. His commander’s instincts had adapted to crisis faster than his conscious mind could follow.

"Emergency beacon from Kepler Station," he said, checking his personal comm unit. "Multiple distress signals. And..." His face went pale in the dim lighting. "Lyralei, they’re reporting reality storms. The kind that only happen when—"

"When someone tries to artificially recreate Harvester consciousness manipulation," she finished, ice forming in her stomach. "Who would be insane enough to attempt that?"

The answer came as they rushed through corridors filled with emergency lighting and the acrid smell of overloaded systems. Admiral Torven met them at the bridge entrance, his weathered face grim with the weight of terrible news.

"It’s the Remnant Coalition," he reported without preamble. "Three of the former Harvester client states have banded together. They’re calling themselves the New Dominion, and they’ve been experimenting with captured Harvester biotechnology."

The main display showed a tactical overview of the Kepler System—seven worlds that had been under direct Harvester control for over two decades. What should have been a liberation zone was instead a nightmare of competing factions, each claiming legitimacy while carving territory from the corpses of their neighbors.

"Show me the worst of it," Lyralei commanded, then caught herself again. The old imperious tone still emerged under stress, a reminder of what she’d been. "Please," she added more softly.

The display shifted to show real-time footage from Kepler Prime’s surface. The planetary capital, once a pristine example of Harvester architectural efficiency, was now a war zone. But this wasn’t conventional warfare—reality itself was breaking down in patches across the city. In one district, gravity flowed sideways, creating waterfalls of debris that fell upward into the sky. In another, time moved in stuttering loops, trapping civilians in endless cycles of the same agonizing moment.

"They’re trying to recreate my old blood-binding rituals," Lyralei said, recognizing the distinctive patterns of dimensional distortion. "But they don’t understand the theoretical framework. They’re just... breaking things."

"The New Dominion isn’t the only problem," Reed said, studying the tactical data with growing alarm. "Look at these faction markers. Seven different groups claiming territorial authority, each with some form of Harvester-derived enhancement."

The worst was a group calling itself the Crimson Sovereignty. Their leader, a former planetary governor named Marcus Kane, had somehow grafted Harvester neural interfaces directly into his brain stem. The footage showed him addressing a crowd of followers, his eyes glowing with unnatural light while reality bent around him in sickening waves.

"My brothers and sisters," Kane’s voice carried across the comm channel with artificial resonance, "we have been given a gift beyond measure. The tools of godhood lie scattered across our worlds, waiting for those brave enough to claim them. Why should we remain weak and mortal when we can become something greater?"

Behind him, his followers—former Harvester thralls who’d never learned to think for themselves—cheered with the desperate enthusiasm of the truly lost. Many bore crude surgical scars where they’d attempted to implant Harvester biotechnology. Most of these modifications were failing, leaving the victims in various stages of biological corruption.

"He’s killing them," Reed said quietly. "They don’t understand that Harvester neural integration requires specific genetic markers. Without them..."

"Without them, the biotechnology treats the host as foreign tissue," Lyralei finished. "It converts organic matter into something compatible, but the process is... unpleasant."

That was an understatement. The footage showed Kane’s followers in various stages of transformation—some with metallic growths erupting from their skulls, others with their nervous systems partially replaced by pulsing bio-mechanical cables that moved with a life of their own. Many were clearly in constant agony, but the neural modifications had destroyed their ability to recognize pain as a warning signal.

"Sir," Communications Officer Chen called out, "we’re receiving transmission requests from seventeen different faction leaders across the Kepler System. They’re all demanding immediate recognition as legitimate governing authorities."

"Put them through simultaneously," Reed ordered. "Let’s see what we’re dealing with."

The bridge filled with overlapping voices as faction leaders competed for attention. Governor Kane’s artificially modulated tones mixed with the desperate pleading of civilian administrators, the harsh demands of military strongmen, and something else—something that made Lyralei’s newly mortal blood run cold.

"Blessed Mother," came a voice that was achingly familiar, "your children call to you across the void. We have maintained the old ways, preserved the sacred bonds. Return to us, and we shall remake the stars in your image."

Lyralei’s legs nearly gave out. That voice belonged to Seraphim Valdris, once her most devoted lieutenant, the architect of the blood-binding ceremonies that had enslaved entire populations to her will. She’d thought him dead in the collapse of her empire.

"Cut transmission," she managed to say, but Reed had already seen her reaction.

"Who was that?" he asked quietly.

"Someone who should have died when I fell," Lyralei replied. "Someone who knew me when I was..."

She couldn’t finish the sentence. The memories were too raw, too steeped in blood and anguish. Valdris had been more than a lieutenant—he’d been the dark mirror of her own obsessions, the one who’d taken her most extreme ideas and made them into reality. If he was alive, if he’d gathered survivors from her old regime...

"Ma’am," Tactical Officer Park interrupted, "I’m reading massive energy signatures from the Kepler system. Multiple artificial reality distortions, and they’re... they’re synchronized."

The display showed a god’s-eye view of the system, with reality distortions marked as pulsing red zones. The pattern was unmistakable—the various factions weren’t just randomly experimenting with Harvester technology. They were following a coordinated plan, creating a network of dimensional instabilities that formed a complex geometric pattern.

"It’s a summoning array," Lyralei breathed. "System-wide scale. They’re trying to call something through from the far dimensions."

"Call what?" Reed demanded.

Before she could answer, the bridge lights flickered and dimmed. Through the viewports, space itself seemed to shudder, stars blinking out of existence for brief moments before reappearing in slightly different positions. The Bloodletter’s superstructure groaned with stress that had nothing to do with physics.

"They’re trying to call me back," Lyralei said, understanding flooding through her like ice water. "My old self. The thing I was before I chose humanity."

The implications hit everyone present simultaneously. If Valdris and the other survivors of her regime could somehow resurrect her former consciousness, her supernatural abilities, they wouldn’t need to understand Harvester technology. They’d have the source code for reality manipulation itself.

"That’s impossible," Admiral Torven said. "You gave up those powers voluntarily. They’re gone."

"Are they?" Lyralei looked at her hands, remembering the moments when she and Reed’s combined will had stabilized reality around them. "Or are they just... dormant?"

Reed stepped closer, his presence a anchor of warmth against the growing cold of cosmic horror. "Even if they could call back your old powers, you’re not that person anymore. You chose differently."

"Did I?" The question came out as barely more than a whisper. "Or did I just tell myself that choosing humanity was possible while keeping the monster as a backup plan?"

The accusation hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Everyone on the bridge could feel the weight of it—the possibility that Lyralei’s transformation had been incomplete, that the tyrant who’d once reshaped worlds on a whim might still exist somewhere in the depths of her psyche.

"Sir," Chen called out, "priority transmission from Kepler Prime. It’s... it’s addressed to the ’Crimson Empress.’"

Lyralei closed her eyes, feeling the old titles settle around her shoulders like a familiar coat. The Crimson Empress. The Blood-Bound Mother. The Architect of Sorrows. Names she’d worn with pride in the dark years when she’d mistaken power for purpose.

"Put it through," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos in her mind.

The main display flickered, showing Seraphim Valdris in all his terrible glory. Age had not been kind to him—decades of exposure to dimensional energies had left him more construct than man. His skin had taken on a metallic sheen, and cables grew from his skull like a crown of thorns. But his eyes... his eyes still burned with the same fanatic devotion she remembered.

"My Empress," he said, his voice carrying harmonics that bypassed the ears and resonated directly in the bones. "How long we have waited for this moment. How many prayers we have offered to the void, begging for your return."

"I’m not your Empress anymore, Valdris," Lyralei replied. "That creature died when I chose humanity."

Valdris smiled, the expression made horrible by the way his facial muscles moved independently of bone and cartilage. "Did she? Then explain the synchronized reality distortions that follow in your wake. Explain how your presence turns chaos into order, how your will shapes the fabric of existence itself."

He gestured, and the display showed surveillance footage from across the Sovereign Confluence fleet. Every location where Lyralei and Reed had worked together showed the same phenomenon—reality becoming more stable, more responsive to conscious intent.

"You cannot escape what you are," Valdris continued. "The universe recognizes your true nature, even if you’ve forgotten it. And we... we have prepared a suitable welcome for your return."

The image shifted to show the surface of Kepler Prime’s largest moon. What had once been a mining facility was now something else entirely—a vast complex of ritual chambers and dimensional resonance arrays, all focused on a central altar that made Lyralei’s mortal heart skip beats.

It was built from the bones of worlds she’d conquered, from the crystallized suffering of populations she’d enslaved. Every stone had been placed according to the geometries of absolute dominion, every angle calculated to channel and amplify psychic energy.

"The Throne of Crimson Eternity," Valdris said with religious reverence. "We have spent thirty years preparing it for your ascension. One touch of your hand to its surface, and you will remember what you truly are. The galaxy will remember why it once knelt before your magnificence."

Reed stepped forward, his face hard with protective fury. "She’s not going anywhere near that abomination."

"Ah, the loyal pet speaks," Valdris said with amused contempt. "How touching that even in her diminished state, she inspires such devotion. Tell me, little man—what will you do when she remembers that love is weakness, that compassion is the luxury of the powerless?"

"I’ll stand by her," Reed replied without hesitation. "Whatever she becomes, whatever she chooses—I’ll stand by her."

Valdris laughed, the sound like crystal breaking in a cathedral. "Such noble words. But you misunderstand the situation. This is not about choice. The summoning has already begun. With every moment you remain in this system, the resonance grows stronger. Soon, she will have no choice but to reclaim what was always hers."

As if to emphasize his point, the bridge lights flickered again. This time, Lyralei felt something stir deep in her mind—not her own thoughts, but something older, darker, infinitely more dangerous. For just an instant, she remembered what it felt like to reshape matter with a thought, to bend the will of entire civilizations to her desires.

The memory was intoxicating. And terrifying.

"Fight it," Reed said quietly, his hand finding hers. "Whatever you’re feeling, fight it."

"What if I can’t?" she whispered. "What if this is who I really am, and everything else was just... pretending?"

Before Reed could answer, the ship’s emergency klaxons screamed to life. Admiral Torven’s voice cut through the chaos: "All stations, prepare for dimensional translation. Something massive is coming through hyperspace, and it’s not following standard physics."

The main display shifted to show long-range sensors picking up an impossible signature—a fleet of ships that registered as both matter and energy, both present and absent. They moved through space like sharks through blood-warmed water, leaving reality distortions in their wake.

"The Remnant Armada," Valdris said with obvious satisfaction. "My gift to you, Empress. Every ship crewed by your former subjects, every weapon blessed in the old rituals. They come to escort you home."

The ships were beautiful in the way that certain poisons were beautiful—sleek vessels of dark metal and crimson energy, each one a masterwork of engineering and artistry. But Lyralei could see the truth beneath the surface beauty. These weren’t just ships—they were mobile temples, each one designed to channel and amplify her old powers.

"How many?" Reed asked grimly.

"Forty-seven capital ships," Torven reported. "Each one showing energy signatures consistent with reality manipulation technology. And sir... they’re broadcasting something. Audio transmission on all frequencies."

The bridge filled with sound that was part music, part prayer, part threat. Thousands of voices singing in the old tongue, calling for the return of the Crimson Empress, begging for her dark benediction. Many of the voices were clearly inhuman—the modified survivors of her old regime, transformed beyond recognition by decades of exposure to dimensional energies.

"They’ve been waiting," Lyralei said with dawning horror. "All this time, through everything, they’ve been waiting for me to come back."

"And now you have," Valdris said with triumph. "The moment you entered this system, the ancient bonds began to reassert themselves. Can you feel it, my Empress? The old power stirring in your veins? The universe itself recognizing your return?"

She could feel it. That was the worst part. With every passing moment, the mortal limitations she’d accepted began to feel more like chains than choices. The ache in her joints, the need for sleep and food, the terrible vulnerability of existing in only three dimensions—all of it seemed increasingly arbitrary, increasingly optional.

"Lyralei," Reed said urgently, "look at me. Focus on my voice. You are not that person anymore. You chose something better."

"Did I choose it?" she asked, her voice carrying harmonics that made the bridge crew flinch. "Or did I simply run away from the responsibility of power?"

The question hung in the air like a loaded weapon. Around them, space continued to distort as the Remnant Armada approached, their presence warping reality into configurations that had been forbidden since the fall of her empire.

And somewhere in the deepest chambers of her mortal mind, something that had been sleeping for thirty years began to wake.

"Ma’am," Chen called out, his voice tight with barely controlled panic, "I’m receiving a priority transmission from the outer system. It’s... it’s the Sovereign’s Pride. They’re requesting immediate evacuation authorization."

"What’s wrong?" Reed demanded.

"The planet, sir. Kepler VII. It’s... changing. The surface readings don’t make sense anymore. And the population... all forty million of them... they’re all broadcasting the same message simultaneously."

The main display shifted to show a world in transition. The surface, once covered in the standard urban complexes of a Harvester client state, was now flowing like liquid. Buildings grew and changed shape in real-time, reality bending to accommodate architectural impossibilities.

But it was the population that truly defied comprehension. Forty million human beings, all speaking in perfect unison, their voices carrying across space with unnatural clarity:

"The Empress returns to reclaim her throne. Let all creation rejoice in the restoration of perfect order. Let the weak and the faithless tremble before her magnificent truth."

"They’re all connected," Lyralei breathed. "Every single person on that world is sharing the same consciousness. Just like..."

"Just like your old blood-binding rituals," Reed finished grimly.

The implications were staggering. If Valdris had found a way to recreate her consciousness-binding techniques on a planetary scale, if he could turn entire populations into extensions of her will...

"Forty-seven ships," Admiral Torven updated, "closing fast. Estimated time to engagement range: eighteen minutes."

"Can we run?" Reed asked.

"Where would we go?" Lyralei replied. "You saw the pattern—they’re not just here for conquest. They’re here for me. And they’ll follow us to the ends of existence if necessary."

Through the bridge viewports, the first of the Remnant ships became visible to the naked eye—a sleek dreadnought that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Its hull was covered in inscriptions that hurt to look at directly, symbols that had been carved in languages that predated human civilization.

"The Bloodthirst," Lyralei said, recognizing the vessel with a mixture of nostalgia and horror. "My old flagship. I thought it was destroyed in the rebellion."

"Restored and sanctified," Valdris said proudly. "Every deck blessed with the blood of martyrs, every weapon consecrated in the name of your eternal glory. She awaits your return, Empress. As do we all."

The dreadnought’s approach was having a measurable effect on local space-time. Reality seemed to grow denser around it, more responsive to conscious intent. And Lyralei could feel the pull—not just gravitational, but something deeper. The ship remembered her, recognized her, called to her with the voice of absolute power.

"Reed," she said quietly, "I need you to make me a promise."

"Anything."

"If I... if I become what they want me to become... if the old Empress takes control..."

"You won’t," Reed said firmly. "I won’t let you."

"You might not have a choice." She turned to face him, and he saw something terrible in her eyes—not madness, but the kind of terrible clarity that came with accepting an inevitable doom. "Promise me that if I fall, you’ll do what needs to be done."

Reed’s face went white. "Lyralei, no. Don’t ask me to—"

"Promise me," she insisted. "Someone has to be willing to pull the trigger. And it has to be someone who..." She swallowed hard. "Someone who understands what I’m trying to protect."

Before Reed could respond, the bridge erupted in alarms. The Bloodthirst had come within weapons range, and her forward batteries were powering up—not to attack, but to fire a salute. The energy signature was unmistakable: the Crimson Benediction, the ceremonial greeting reserved for the return of absolute royalty.

"Forty-seven ships," Admiral Torven reported, his voice hollow with the scope of the crisis. "All of them powering weapons systems. But sir... they’re not targeting us. They’re targeting the Sovereign Confluence fleet positions throughout the system."

The tactical display showed the horrible truth. The Remnant Armada had positioned itself to threaten every major population center in the system—not to destroy them, but to hold them hostage. Valdris had planned this perfectly. Surrender to the old ways, or watch millions die.

"Elegant, isn’t it?" Valdris said with obvious pride. "No bloodshed necessary, assuming you make the correct choice. Simply step aboard the Bloodthirst, take your rightful place on the Throne of Crimson Eternity, and reclaim what was always yours. The galaxy will have order again. Perfect, eternal order."

Lyralei stared at the approaching dreadnought, feeling the weight of impossible choices pressing down on her mortal shoulders. Around her, the bridge crew waited for orders, their faces reflecting the same terrible understanding: whatever happened next would reshape the balance of power in the galaxy.

And in the depths of her mind, something that had been dormant for thirty years whispered seductive promises of an end to weakness, an end to uncertainty, an end to the terrible burden of being merely human.

The countdown to decision had begun, and time was running out faster than light could travel.

"Empress," Valdris said with infinite patience, "your fleet awaits your command."