The sky above Kamelot did not darken gradually.

  It fractured.

  One moment, the twin moons hung polished and serene over the spires of the capital. The next, the stars bent inward, drawn toward a wound in space that opened without thunder, without warning, without mercy.

  Princess Zerena felt it before she saw it.

  A tremor beneath marble floors. A vibration in the air that made the chandeliers sing. The subtle shift in atmosphere that every royal child was trained to recognize: incoming warp displacement.

  She stood alone on the eastern balcony of the High Tower, gazing out across the illuminated terraces of Kamelot Prime. Below, the city shimmered in gold and white—bridges suspended over canals of liquid light, solar pylons casting radiant halos across the skyline, banners drifting in controlled atmospheric currents.

  Her world.

  Behind her, the chamber doors burst open.

  “Your Highness,” Captain Armand said, breath tight but controlled. “Multiple signatures. Unknown fleet. They’ve breached outer orbit.”

  “How many?” Zerena asked.

  “Too many.”

  The sky split.

  A black structure tore through the wound in space and anchored itself above the planet like a crown forged from night. Around it, warships unfolded—sleek, armored, bearing sigils no one in Kamelot had seen outside classified Federation briefings.

  And at the center of every hull, etched in burning silver—

  A sun eclipsed.

  Zerena’s fingers tightened against the balcony rail.

  “Rhaegon,” she whispered.

  As if summoned by name, the first orbital cannon fired.

  A beam of condensed stellar energy lanced downward and struck the western defense array. The impact did not explode. It erased. The entire battery vanished in a sphere of silent distortion before collapsing into fire.

  Sirens howled across the capital.

  The palace shields flickered into existence—vast domes of refracted light rising from the citadel’s foundation. Defensive satellites deployed from hidden compartments along the ring of the planet. Anti-air grids lit the sky in crosshatching lines of plasma.

  Kamelot did not fall easily.

  It never had.

  But this was not a siege.

  This was execution.

  Five ships detached from the main fleet and descended in formation toward the capital’s upper atmosphere. They did not fire. They did not maneuver.

  They simply fell.

  Captain Armand turned toward Zerena. “We must move.”

  “Where is my father?” she demanded.

  “In the War Chamber.”

  “Then that is where I’m going.”

  Another strike hit the northern terraces. This time the blast was visible—stone and glass vaporized in a column of light that reached the clouds.

  The captain hesitated.

  “Your Highness, protocol dictates—”

  “I am not a relic to be hidden in a vault,” Zerena said. “If Kamelot burns, I see it burn.”

  She moved before he could argue, striding through the tower corridor as palace guards formed around her in silent precision.

  The War Chamber lay deep beneath the palace, shielded by layers of reinforced alloy and kinetic dampeners. As they descended through gravity shafts, the tremors intensified. Dust filtered from seams in the walls. The lights flickered.

  By the time Zerena entered, the room was chaos restrained by discipline.

  Holographic projections filled the air—fleet positions, orbital trajectories, damage reports streaming in relentless waves.

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  Her father, King Aldric, stood at the central dais.

  He did not look surprised.

  “Zerena,” he said calmly. “You should not be here.”

  “You trained me for this,” she replied.

  A pulse rippled across the central display. One of the descending ships breached the upper shield layer without resistance.

  “How?” a general demanded. “The harmonic frequency hasn’t been compromised.”

  King Aldric did not answer immediately.

  Instead, he looked at the symbol on the invading hull.

  “Because he knows our shields,” he said quietly.

  Before anyone could ask how, the chamber shook with such force that several officers fell to their knees.

  The first of the five ships touched down inside the capital.

  Inside the shield.

  “That’s impossible,” Armand breathed.

  The holographic projection zoomed in.

  The vessel unfolded.

  Not into machinery.

  Into figures.

  Five silhouettes stepped from the fractured hull as if descending a staircase carved from light.

  They wore black armor edged in silver flame. Their capes moved though there was no wind. Their helmets bore no visors—only smooth obsidian surfaces reflecting the burning city.

  The Black Judges had arrived.

  The chamber doors detonated inward.

  Not from artillery.

  From a single vertical slash of light.

  The guards reacted instantly, raising pulse shields and weapons—but the first figure entered before the smoke settled.

  Tall. Controlled. Sword in hand.

  Azhrael.

  The First Blade.

  He did not speak.

  He stepped forward and cut through the nearest guard in one motion so precise that the body remained standing for half a heartbeat before collapsing in two silent halves.

  The War Chamber erupted.

  Blaster fire tore across the air. Shields flared and shattered. Generals drew ceremonial sidearms that had not been used in decades.

  Zerena watched as the second Judge entered—massive, plated in reinforced siege armor. Malvyr moved like a living fortress, absorbing fire as if it were rain.

  Behind him came Seraphel, hands glowing with diamond resonance, the air warping around her fingertips.

  Draxion followed, drones deploying in perfect symmetry around his form.

  And finally—

  Velkaith.

  Silent.

  Unseen until a blade appeared from shadow and removed the head of Kamelot’s chief tactician.

  “Fall back!” Armand roared.

  But there was nowhere to fall back to.

  King Aldric stepped forward.

  “Zerena,” he said.

  She turned.

  He removed the signet ring from his finger and pressed it into her palm.

  “You leave now.”

  “No.”

  “You leave.”

  Another guard died.

  The Judges advanced without urgency, cutting through resistance like surgeons removing infection.

  “Father—”

  “You are the continuity of Kamelot,” he said. “Not this chamber. Not this palace.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “You survive.”

  Armand grabbed her arm.

  “Extraction route Gamma,” he said.

  The floor beneath the dais split open, revealing a concealed gravity shaft.

  Zerena hesitated only once.

  Long enough to see Azhrael raise his blade toward her father.

  Then she fell.

  The shaft sealed above her as Armand and five elite escorts descended with her through the hidden channel.

  The rumble of combat faded behind reinforced layers.

  But even underground, the war followed.

  Explosions rippled through sublevels. Emergency lights bathed corridors in red.

  They emerged into a hangar carved from bedrock.

  Three royal interceptors stood ready.

  “Only one will make it through the blockade,” Armand said. “We split pursuit.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Zerena said.

  He smiled faintly.

  “You are.”

  They ran.

  As they reached the launch platform, a shockwave tore through the hangar ceiling. One of the Black Judges had penetrated the palace core.

  Velkaith.

  The shadow moved across the upper catwalk.

  Two escorts raised rifles.

  They died before firing.

  Armand shoved Zerena toward the cockpit.

  “Go!”

  She climbed inside as engines roared to life.

  Through the canopy she saw him draw his blade one last time.

  Velkaith descended.

  The interceptor launched.

  The hangar exploded behind her.

  Zerena’s ship pierced upward through smoke and debris into a sky filled with warships.

  Defense satellites shattered around her.

  Civilians screamed over open comm channels.

  The capital burned in rings of fire.

  She pushed the engines beyond safe thresholds, weaving between debris fields and plasma trails.

  One escort ship fell to a railgun blast.

  The second was torn apart by drone swarms.

  Armand’s interceptor remained at her flank until a black vessel locked onto him.

  “Fly,” his voice came through the channel.

  The last thing Zerena saw was his ship turning into the path of the incoming barrage.

  The explosion swallowed him.

  Her cockpit filled with warning alarms.

  Hull integrity dropping.

  Fuel destabilizing.

  She did not look back again.

  Ahead lay the outer defense belt.

  Beyond it—

  Space.

  She triggered the emergency crest override. The royal insignia pulsed across her console, granting temporary clearance through the final planetary gate.

  The barrier opened just long enough.

  Her interceptor burst through into the void.

  Behind her, Kamelot Prime was engulfed in cascading fire.

  And above it, suspended in cold orbit, the flagship of King Rhaegon radiated darkness like a new star.

  Zerena cut engines and let the drift carry her away from the only home she had ever known.

  Her hands trembled.

  Her crown lay somewhere beneath the ruins.

  Her father was gone.

  Her kingdom was occupied.

  And the galaxy had just watched it happen.

  The sun of Kamelot had fallen.

  But the night was only beginning.