[= Transmission Acquired... =]
Aventis Secundus – Exile Stronghold
Undisclosed Location, Restricted System
Standard Galactic Date: 2739, Cycle 03
Planetary Cycle: 18:47 Imperial Standard (Local Time Adjusted for Rotation)
Environmental Status: Stable – Fortified Atmosphere Maintained
Security Status: High Alert – No Unverified Exits or Entries
Surveillance Integrity: Active – 98.7% Operational (Classified Zones Exempt from Monitoring)
Legatus Status: Confined – Level Red Authorization Required for Contact
Internal Communications: Restricted – Only Approved Transmissions Permitted
[= Connection Secured =]
The winds howled against the fortified walls of the keep, rattling the iron shutters as the twin moons of Aventis Secundus cast a sickly glow across the cold, blackened landscape.
A former jewel of the Republic, now little more than a backwater world, a forgotten place where they sent the men they feared but couldn’t kill outright.
Legatus Varro Marcellis sat at a heavy stone table, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against its surface. The room was sparsely furnished, not a cell, but not a throne room either. A cage of their making, but one he had claimed as his own.
His name was not spoken within the Senate, but his will was still written in its laws, its foundations, its doctrines.
A heavy knock on the iron door.
Varro did not turn. "Enter."
The doors groaned open.
Lucius Draconius.
A Centurion of the Legio Invicta, the right hand of a kingdom that did not yet exist.
He stepped forward, clad in polished, blackened armor, its insignia carefully stripped yet unmistakable to those who knew.
The soldier snapped his fist to his chest in the old salute. “My lord.”
Varro did not look up. He had already foreseen the answer.
"What news from the Senate?"
The Centurion took another step forward, the candlelight casting his angular face into deep shadows.
"They have signed the treaty, my lord. The Oris Union and the Terran Republic now share open borders, free trade, and non-aggression pacts. They call it a historic alliance."
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Varro exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening against the table.
Then, he laughed. Soft. Hollow. Dangerous.
"Of course they have. Yet another historic disgrace to mankind."
Draconius nodded. "They celebrate it publicly as a new age of unity. Trade rights. Military cooperation."
Varro’s smirk didn’t fade. “A republic at peace.”
"Tell me, Centurion, do you know what happened to Saguntum?"
Draconius’s jaw tightened. “They were loyal to Rome. Until the day came when they sided with Carthage, thinking they would treat them better.”
Varro nodded. "And who opened their gates to Hannibal?"
Draconius hesitated. “Their own. The ones who feared Rome’s wrath less than they feared Carthage’s sword.”
Varro exhaled, slow and cold. "Yes. The weak-willed. The envious. The kind of men who look at greatness and feel only resentment. They saw Hannibal at their walls and chose to sell their city rather than fight for it. And for what?"
His fingers flexed against the table.
"For promises. For rewards that never came. And when the Carthaginians had taken everything from them, what became of those noble traitors?"
Draconius’s voice was a whisper now. “They were put to the sword with the rest.”
Varro’s smirk deepened, but there was no humor in it.
"Saguntum was not the last, nor the first."
He exhaled sharply, the words dripping with scorn.
"Capua. Another jewel of Rome, another city that thought itself above its own kin. Their leaders saw Hannibal’s victories, saw Rome bleed, and what did they do?"
Draconius didn’t need to answer.
Varro slammed his fist against the table.
"They turned their cloaks. Betrayed their brothers. Pledged loyalty to an outsider so that they might rule as kings in a world of slaves."
"And what did Rome do?"
Draconius exhaled. “They erased them.”
Varro’s smirk returned. "Yes. The Senate had them flogged, stripped, and their cities turned to ash. Those who conspired were left to starve in the gutters of their own betrayal."
He stood now, placing both hands on the table, leaning over Draconius like a blade poised to strike.
"Tell me, Centurion, what do you see when you look at the Senate today?"
Draconius didn’t hesitate. "The same cowards. The same filth."
Varro’s voice turned razor-thin. "These weakling senators and their merchant lords are not naive. They are not ignorant. They know exactly what they are doing."
His fist clenched.
"They do not seek peace. They seek power. Not over the aliens, not over the our enemies, but over us, over their own kind. They are parasites… weak men who could never build what we have, only profit from it. Profit from its destruction. They know that if Terra stood as it should—an empire forged in strength, ruled by one hand, unyielding, absolute—they would have no place in it. No Senate to hide behind, no Republic to rot from within. Just order. Just the will of the strong. And the strong have no use for leeches."
He exhaled, voice turning colder.
"They are the ones unbarring the gates. They are the ones kneeling in the dark, holding out the keys to our conquerors."
Draconius’s hands curled into fists.
Varro tilted his head, watching him.
"You understand, don’t you? They aren’t just parasites, they are our greatest threat. There is no loyalty in their veins, no kinship in their hearts. They look at our people and see only beasts to be ruled."
The words were final.
A decree.
"They are the enemy."
Silence fell.
Draconius exhaled. "What are your orders, my lord?"
He leaned back, fingers tapping against the table in a slow, rhythmic motion.
Varro leaned back, considering.
"Begin the purges."
A flicker of something passed over the Centurion’s face. "Shall we be discreet?"
Varro smirked.
"Was Alexander 'discreet' when he burned Persepolis?"
Draconius lowered his head. "I will see them purged."
